Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

It was one of the stormiest nights ever to beset Cheyenne Moon.

Seasoned hands in the bunkhouse reminisced about old times and tried to top one another’s stories. The fresh-faced newcomers listened intently to the tales, never knowing what was truth and what was pure exaggeration.

Though the lady boss was a savvy woman and rarely got taken in by the wild yarns spun around a campfire, she’d fallen for a good-looking, smooth-as-silk stranger in a heat-flash.

If someone had told the crew in the bunkhouse what was happening up in the big house, none of the boys would’ve believed a word. Anybody who knew Elise Winston knew she wasn’t a gullible gal. She was foolish over only one thing-the land that had belonged to her family for better than a century. Never would she lose her head because of some man.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ruth Alana Smith draws inspiration from current events as well as her vivid imagination. When she learned of a title dispute over the hill country of central Texas-”one of my favorite places”-she immediately wrote a story about “the high emotions it engendered.” That love of the land and the love of a good man drive her heroine, E. Z. Winston, throughout Texas Standoff. Family ties and other ties that bind are the inspiration for Ruth’s eighth Superromance novel, about a Texas family fighting to keep what they consider to be rightfully theirs.

Ruth Alana Smith lives in Pasadena, Texas.

Texas Standoff
Ruth Alana Smith

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

“BOY, OH BOY it just keeps comin’ down, folks.” The DJ’s West Texas drawl was slower than the pickup’s sluggish wipers. In between the halting tha-thumps of the worn blades rubbing against a cracked windshield, the driver could catch a glimpse of the winding road ahead. A second later the arch of visibility disappeared, and the driver was forced to navigate the twolane blacktop by reflex betwixt the damnable pauses.

“And according to the weather boys, this storm system’s stalled smack-dab on top of us, which is not good news any way you cut it,” the announcer warned. “It’s rained eight inches in less than an hour and they’re predictin’ twice that amount in some parts of the listenin’ area.”

The yellow hound dog lying on the seat next to the driver yawned, stretched and sat up for a look-see. A zigzag of lightning split the dark horizon. Thunder boomed in stereo, making the truck rattle inside, as well as out. Now, to the tha-thumps, ka-booms and radio static, was added the nervous whine of a hound dog.

“It’s okay, Hombre.” The driver chanced onehanding the wheel just long enough to give the dog a reassuring pat. Eighty pounds of canine hunkered tight against faded Levi’s, and a ring of drool darkened the denimed thigh beneath the hound’s sagging jowls. Loyal to the core, old Hombre had blind faith in his mistress, and considering the present circumstances, it was being put to the test.

“Sixteen inches is a gang of rain. Most of y’all know what that means, but for those first-timers or passersthrough who haven’t been privy to these kinds of floods, let me pass along a word of advice. Get off the roads and find high ground. The quicker the better. In these parts when we say, ‘God willin’ and if’n the creek don’t rise,’ it ain’t just an expression, folks. It’s for real. The water comes up faster than you can blink. Believe me, you don’t want to be one of those stalled-out souls stranded in the middle of nowhere with the water comin’ up around your ears.”

The woman driving the pickup certainly didn’t relish the prospect. She leaned her slim frame closer to the steering wheel, her fingers tensing as she noticed between tha-thumps that the side ditches were already swollen to capacity, the muddied rainwater spilling onto the road. Elise Winston was not nearly as upset with the weather as she was with herself. She wasn’t some uninitiated greenhorn. She was rural through and through, born and raised-except for the couple of years spent in England-in the Hill Country. She knew better than to gamble on a fifty-fifty chance of severe weather. Flash flood warnings were commonplace in her corner of the world and not something she generally ignored.

This once, though, the hardworking, headstrong, head honcho of Cheyenne Moon Ranch had indulged a feminine whim-again, not something she was prone to do. Because of such foolishness she now faced the unsavory possibility of not making it back to the ranch before the bridge over Whistling Creek became impassable. The thought of how the hands would ride her about the frivolous reason for courting a swim on her way back from San Antonio-namely, the off-theshoulder lavender sundress with a two-hundred-dollarplus price tag-caused her to give the pickup more gas. Not smart, either, but then, it was fast becoming a choice between the lesser of two evils-risk hydroplaning out of control or being swept away by rampaging waters.

“The sheriff’s department has asked me to pass along some high-water trouble spots,” the DJ’s voice sputtered from the radio speaker. “The following counties are gettin’ the worst of it-Bexar, Bandera and Kerr. In particular, they want y’all to shy away from the areas around Parsons Pass, Two Forks Crossing and Whistling Creek. The first two are already closed ‘cause of high water, and the deputies tell me someone phoned in to say that the water’s risin’ faster than feed prices over at Whistling Creek. They figure the bridge will be out of commission within the hour. There’s already been a report of a car being washed away near Parsons Pass, one person rescued, another drowned. ‘Course, that’s unconfirmed as yet, but it does happen, folks. That’s why we want y’all to heed the sheriff’s warnings and stay off the roads if possible. For those foolhardy enough to brave this mess, for goodness’ sake, use good sense. If you can’t gauge it, don’t risk it. The water’s probably deeper than you think and it’d be a mistake to wade in. Just park and climb a tree, if need be. A vehicle can be replaced. People can’t.”

As the oversize tires of Elise’s pickup plowed through the standing water, the backwash spray against the bottom of the metal bed produced a gushy roar within the cab. The pickup’s forward momentum waned and it was difficult to hold the truck steady on the slick road.

Though it was only four in the afternoon, the sky was pitch-black. The high beams didn’t penetrate but a few yards directly in front. Elise concentrated on the intermittent patch of road she could now and then make out. Her mind was singularly focused. Just another mile or so and she’d reach the bridge and the meandering creek that fringed her property. Think positive, she told herself. The idea of having to dog-paddle the creek with a party dress clenched between her teeth in order to justify the three-hour trip and mucho dinero she’d spent really irked her.

“The bridge won’t be down,” she muttered to herself. Hombre cocked a floppy ear, then exhaled a sigh. Since he was a pup, the dog had loathed water. He hid whenever it was time for his twice-monthly bath. It was almost as if he understood his present predicament. Elise just wasn’t sure if his sigh represented relief or resignation. Hombre’s senses were more reliable than hers. He was simply reacting to the thundering drumroll and the anxious scent emitting from her.

It wasn’t only the rough weather that gnawed at her nerves, or even the unsavory prospect of swimming the cold, spring-fed creek. No, it was something else, something akin to a feeling of expectancy-a strange premonition that a crossing of a different sort than the one she anticipated awaited her at the edge of Whistling Creek.

She shrugged off the queer sensation, chalking it up to the strain of the treacherous drive. “Silliness,” she told herself, concentrating, instead, on keeping the truck in the middle of the road and far from the steep side ditches, which had become invisible under the surging storm waters.

“I SAID I’M UP to my Mercedes emblem in water, lady.

As we speak, I’m stranded on the side of some godforsaken back road with water creeping up to my-” he almost said, “crotch,” but checked himself “-knees.

This is an SOS,” he yelled into the receiver of the portable phone.

The voice of the mobile operator on the other end was mostly garbled static, with only an occasional intelligible word filtering through.

“What.” Hiss, crackle, then silence punctuated by a faint human sound. “Location, please,” he managed to snatch from thin air.

What is your location? he guessed, filling in the gaps. He fumbled in his shirt pocket for the sticky note on which he’d scribbled the directions. He couldn’t remember exactly what turnoff he’d taken. No sooner had he removed the slip of paper than he realized he’d left his reading glasses on the console inside the car. The deluge of rain blurred the ink, making deciphering the directions next to impossible. Rivulets of water rolled down his face and dripped off his nose. Where the hell was he? He couldn’t clearly recall any of the road signs he’d passed.

“I think I’m on Calvary Road. No, that’s not it. Maybe it’s Canterbury,” he guessed. “Hell, I can’t remember. It could be Calcutta, for all I know.”

There was no response except for intermittent blips of a female voice. “. landmark…near.” He could barely hear over the percussion of the rain.

He looked about. “There’s a bridge about twenty yards ahead, but I can’t make out the sign,” he hollered, trying to compete with the rolling thunder. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated the sky. Seconds later the cellular phone went dead. The signal was lost. No mobile operator, not even static.

“Crap!” Frustration overtook him. He reared back and threw the useless object as far as his anger would carry it. It was a stupid thing to do, but then so was his decision to continue driving in this foul weather, especially in an area totally foreign to him. It rained in Dallas, same as it did elsewhere, but he’d never experienced a storm as sudden or as intense as this. The road had become a lake in a matter of minutes, and it was impossible to tell where the shoulder ended and the road dropped off into a steep drainage ditch. Hence, the reason for his sleek Mercedes plunging into the ditch and taking on water like a sinking ship while he could do nothing but bail out with portable phone in hand to signal an SOS. Great idea that was!

“Monsoon season in the boonies,” he grumbled to himself, his heart sinking as he noted the ever-rising benchmark of brown water on his cream-colored car. The Mercedes was now half-submerged. Ruined. A total loss. He mentally pictured his insurance agent’s reaction when he filed a claim. Then he pictured how ridiculous he must look at the moment-perched on the hood of his car, sitting cross-legged, barefoot, his perfectly tailored trousers rolled up to his knees, starched shirt soaked to the skin and expertly cut hair plastered to his head. He looked like a human downspout. What a sight! And what fun his associates in Dallas would have at his expense if they could see the always unflappable, impeccable Colin Majors at this ego-deflating instant.

There were many lawyers who’d secretly relish the idea of Colin Majors finding himself in a situation where he was in over his head, where his smooth orations and snappy comebacks wouldn’t sway the balance, where he was no longer in his element but rather at the mercy of the elements. He could object to high heaven, but Mother Nature would overrule him. Oh, yeah, there were more than a few who’d sat at opposing tables throughout many a trial, wishing, probably even praying, he’d be struck by lightning. His present humiliating circumstances would give them immense satisfaction, if only symbolically.

Another crack of lightning fractured the heavens, streaking to earth with serpentinelike fury and slithering along the ground until finding its mark-a nearby tree. The solid oak split upon impact, groaning and sizzling in its sudden demise. Colin flinched so violently he nearly fell off the hood of the car. The smell of charred wood hung in the wet air for only a moment, then it too died under the onslaught of unrelenting rain. Half in awe, half afraid, Colin sat stupefied, unable to detach himself from the havoc of the storm’s unchecked power. Crazily, the freak lightning strike brought to mind an especially harsh remark made to him at the conclusion of another highly charged incident. The exchange took place a few years back, at the end of a sensational murder trial, but he still remembered the stinging rebuke as though it were yesterday. After his client was acquitted, a family member of the victim ambushed him on his way out of the courtroom.

“You’re as sorry as that monster you’ve turned loose to walk the streets again. If there’s any justice in this world, God’ll strike you dead for what you’ve done.” The sobbing accuser had spit in his face. He’d never forget the pain in the woman’s eyes or the bitterness of the attack.

Colin cast a wary glance in the direction of the charred live oak. Surely a damnation uttered years ago hadn’t brought him to this particular place to suffer a fate similar to the one that awaited the serial killer he’d defended once upon a time. In Texas the death penalty was carried out by lethal injection, not electrocution.

He shook off the unsettling notion of karma playing a part in his traveling plans. He had no intention of becoming a sitting duck in the midst of an electrical storm. He forced his eyes and mind to dismiss the felled tree and its implications. “Get a grip, Majors,” he told himself. It was nuts for him to roost like a chicken on the hood of a car with floodwaters nipping at his butt. What did he think? That just because he was a cardcarrying member of the auto club, a tow truck would magically appear?

“Yeah, sure. You’re having a real wet dream,” he scoffed, hoisting himself off the Mercedes and dropping into the now truly crotch-deep water. He’d have to wade his way to some unknown destination beyond that bridge in search of some shelter and he hoped, a phone. Of all the things he should be considering at such a time-the approaching night, the rough terrain and the distinct possibility of encountering a snake along the way-what kept running through his head was a familiar phone company slogan. Boy! If ever he felt the need to reach out and touch somebody, it was now.

ELISE KNEW she was getting close to the crossing. The bridge ought to be coming into view any minute. She focused dead ahead. Her heart was working double time-two beats to every tha-thump of the wipers. The press of the pickup through the surging waters kicked up a lathered backwash. The water lapped at the door panels, and every so often she detected a distinct floating sensation. The sturdy old truck had taken her about as deep as it could. Hombre detected it, too. He began whimpering in earnest.

“Easy, old fella,” she crooned, feigning a calm she did not feel. She reached for the radio dial, trying once again to tune into an updated weather bulletin. The only thing coming in loud and clear was a gospel station. The preacher’s sermon carried a hellfire and damnation message. “Deliver us, Lord,” he prayed.

“Amen,” Elise chimed in. It was then that the front end of the truck dropped hard into a deep rut in the road, sending a brown breaker washing up over the hood and slapping against the windshield. Elise hung on to the wheel for dear life as the pickup bounced over the rut and shimmied precariously. She strained to see through the sheeting water.

Hombre’s bark warned her a split second before a dazzling display of lightning lit up the horizon like the Fourth of July. Silhouetted against the blinding glare was a shimmering distortion- a person directly in her path, arms waving wildly. Her foot went for the brake. When she depressed the pedal, she met no resistance. Like in a bad, slow-motion dream, the truck kept bearing down on the figure ahead.

Feverishly, she pumped the pedal. Panic swelled inside of her. “Get out of the way,” she shouted, frantically waving the wading fool off the road. A second before the impact, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the sickening thud.

When she registered no such sound as a bumper colliding with a body, her eyes flew open. The truck slowed to a crawl in the deep cushion of water, then came to a stop at the edge of the bridge.

Hombre continued barking. The hound paced between the side window and his mistress, alternately pressing his nose to the glass, then sniffing her over. Elise sat paralyzed, unable to pry her foot from the brake pedal or unlock her hands from the steering wheel. Hombre persisted. Satisfied his mistress was unhurt, he pawed and nudged at her until she responded to his fretting.

Regaining control of herself, she flung open the door and hopped down from the high cab into the pelting rain. Being petite of stature, she found herself immersed waist-deep in the chocolate whirlpool. She struggled against the water’s drag, half stumbling, half sidestroking her way around the front of the truck to the opposite side. She was relieved to see what appeared to be the shape of a head sticking up out of the water.

“Are you okay?” she hollered as she worked her way closer to the stranger.

No answer was forthcoming. Her concern mounted. She fell in her haste, taking a dunking in the process. Now she was wet to the shoulders but almost even with the helpless, near-drowned creature a few strides away.

In the darkness it was hard to distinguish the sex of this almost-road-fatality. Then the person spoke up.

“What the devil’s wrong with you, lady! Are you blind or crazy or both?” It was a man’s voice. An angry man’s voice.

“Sorry, mister. You’re lucky I saw you at all in this weather. Can you stand up? Where’re ya hurt?” She plunged a hand under the water, methodically feeling up his leg, certain she’d find a shattered bone protruding through the skin.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I prefer to know a woman a bit better before playing grab-ass.” He made a clumsy but successful effort to get to his feet.

She took his sarcasm in stride. No doubt the man was shaken, considering his brush with death and all. “Rest easy, mister. I don’t intend to molest you. I was just checking to see if ya broke anything,” she explained. “I said I was sorry. My brakes aren’t working. Now, are ‘you going to stand out here looking and acting like some puffed-up toad, or climb into that pickup so we can get the heck out of here? That bridge isn’t going to Jiold much longer.” She motioned for him to follow.

Colin couldn’t distinguish the woman’s features, only that she was slim and just as wet as he. He nodded and she turned to make her way back to the driver’s side of the pickup.

“Friendly of her to offer me a ride after running me down like some road lizard,” he grumbled as he sloshed his way to the passenger door and yanked it open. He froze upon meeting a pair of glowing yellow orbs and an unwelcoming snarl. Now what? Was he supposed to share the seat with a wild dingo sporting a collar? Terrific! Just terrific! He cautiously backed up.

“Mind your manners, Hombre.” Elise settled herself behind the wheel, patting the place beside her for Hombre to take his former position.

The hulk of a dog obeyed, stretching out beside his mistress but keeping an eye on the stranger.

Colin hoisted himself into the cab, careful not to invade the hound’s space.

Before attempting the bridge, she decided to try again to make amends with, the stranger. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Let’s try again. Hi, my name’s E.Z. Winston.” She stretched out her hand and smiled. Referring to herself by nickname came automatically. Elise Zoe Winston was a mouthful, so her daddy had decided on a simpler substitution shortly after her birth. The initials had stuck. It never occurred to her how odd the nickname would sound to an outsider.

Had he heard her right? Did she say Easy? Good grief! What kind of name was that? He returned the handshake. “Colin Majors,” he supplied. “I do appreciate the lift.”

“My place is only a few miles ahead. We’re in luck. The bridge isn’t completely under water yet.” Elise put the pickup in low gear and prepared to make the iffy crossing. She thought about her earlier premonition and found herself glancing over at the man on her right. He had a strong profile, an interesting look about him. Aside from that, all she really knew about the stranger she’d, picked up on the side of the road was that he tended to be a bit sarcastic. Considering the circumstances, she supposed he had a right.

Colin was also mentally measuring the woman and the ridiculous situation. Why had he let his cousin talk him into this visit? Where in the Sam Hill was he, anyway? Dogpatch USA? So far he’d lost a costly car, almost his life, and now he was hitching a ride with Daisy Mae. He cast a circumspect glance in her direction. She looked like a drowned rat, but she was kind of an attractive little rodent. Yeah, the natural type, he decided. Which was not his type, as if it mattered. He wasn’t looking to get involved; he was just searching for the nearest phone.

CHAPTER TWO

COLIN EXPECTED the accommodations awaiting him at the end of the hazardous journey to be about as miserable as the ride itself. The “my place” mentioned by his rescuer was probably a shack in the woods with a pigpen out back. He envisioned the shanties from the pages of Tobacco Road. At best, it would be a small frame house with an assortment of cows and chickens milling about, simple but clean with a few amenities such as indoor plumbing and, please God, a telephone.

His assumptions were not so much based on the woman’s appearance or manner, neither of which was shabby, as they were on his concept of the area as a whole-sprawling hills sprinkled with homespun people who were content living apart from the mainstream. They were aliens to him-a strange breed. He lived in a different world and was a product of a fasterpaced, much more cosmopolitan culture. The simple life might hold a certain appeal for some, but not for him. He saw it as boring. Somewhere deep in his psyche he equated laid-back with lazy. It was probably an unfair and incorrect correlation, but.

Why was he even bothering to analyze his perceptions of a place and people that held no real importance for him? He’d only made the trip as a favor. He wasn’t staying on. Two days max, and he was out of here. In the meantime, he supposed it served no purpose to brood over a lost Mercedes. Sulking over his present predicament wouldn’t change it. So, the lady had nearly made him a hood ornament. She’d apologized, and at least it was dry inside the pickup. Considering his momentary dependence on the woman at the wheel, he supposed he should make a halfhearted attempt at congeniality.

Little did he know that the notion of not assisting him was an option she would never have contemplated, not even if he was the source of a long-standing feud and the object of intense hatred. Of course, if he was a bitter enemy rather than a complete stranger, she’d have no compunction about leaving him high and dry and on foot the minute they reached safe ground. Though such reasoning would be baffling to the outsider, it made perfect sense to her.

Once across the bridge, they exchanged only a few casual words. It was obvious the woman wished to concentrate on maneuvering the truck through the ever-rising waters. He was wet, tired and disgusted, and more than a little leery about their final destination.

“So where’re you from?” she asked.

“Dallas,” he supplied:

Elise didn’t follow up with, “What brings you to the Hill Country?” Local custom dictated that it was not proper to delve into a person’s private business. Asking a bunch of personal questions was labeled “being nosy” and considered impolite.

They rode another mile or so before turning off the main road onto another. Between the darkness and the nonstop rain, Colin could make out little of his surroundings.

“We’re almost there, Mr. Majors. The main gate is just up ahead.”

He was sure his notion of a main gate was something entirely different from hers. He thought in terms of elaborate metalwork, electronic codes and surveillance. She was probably talking about some barbed wire stretched from one wooden fence post to another and secured with a padlock.

“Great,” he said less than enthusiastically.

With some fancy footwork and a hand brake, she managed to bring the truck to a halt, ordering, “Wait here,” before jumping out.

He wasn’t sure if she meant him or the dog. Unfamiliar with the ways of ranching folk, he had no basis for knowing it was a long-standing practice for the owner of a spread to always open the gate for a visitor. It was considered the hospitable thing to do. He felt foolish sitting high and dry as she trounced through the waters, daring a snake bite while wrestling with the heavy gates. Moving forward in his seat, he peered at the entrance spotlighted in the high beams.

Feeling foolish did not even begin to describe his next reaction. Though the main gates were obviously not electronic, they were made of wrought iron-not ornate, just simple vertical metal spears stretched between two twelve-foot-high limestone pillars. Above the massive gates was an arch of lacy grillwork with a symbol or logo of sorts etched between two words. “Cheyenne Moon,” he read aloud.

The hound raised his head and assessed the stranger. Ever so easily, Colin eased back in the seat and engaged in a little assessing of his own. The headlights shone on his traveling companion, and for the first time he got a good look at her from behind. Her hair was the color of mahogany, long and pulled straight back into a single thick braid that fell halfway to her waist. The ground was higher at the gates, and as she swung them open, he studied the firm outline of her valentineshaped buttocks beneath the wet, clinging jeans. Not bad, he thought, glancing over to be certain the hound couldn’t read his mind. It was a debatable point. The dog was watching his every move.

When he returned his eyes to the woman, she was wading her way back to the truck. His pulse quickened and an instinctive stirring occurred in his loins as he took advantage of a full frontal view. His eyes fell first on the drenched white cotton covering her breasts. The material was practically transparent in the bright beam of the headlights. But oddly enough, it was when his gaze came level with her face that he experienced a fleeting instant of oxygen deprivation. Even the comical wet-mop hairstyle did not detract from her beauty. Though he couldn’t make out every detail of her face, the overall effect was literally stunning. Suddenly before him appeared a curious cross between his favorite screen sirens, a woman who simultaneously possessed the soft sensuousness of Julia Roberts and the sultry hardness of Sharon Stone, albeit a brunette version, He knew he was letting his imagination run away with him. She was not glamorous in any sense of the word. Yet she was undoubtedly the sexiest-looking woman he’d ever seen. How had he missed noticing this before now?

The creak of the truck door opening jarred him to his senses. Well, somewhat. He offered her a stupid stare.

“Is something wrong?” Her words penetrated the fog blocking his normal brain-wave activity.

“Uh, no,” he lied poorly. Unable to meet her gaze, he focused on the hound. “I was just wondering when Hombre last ate and if he ever craved human flesh.” Better. More like his smooth self.

She laughed at his remark. It was a husky, pleasurable sound. A deep-throated, silky turn-on that-Jeez, Majors! Get your mind off full lips and tight buns. A phone call is all you need to make tonight.

Ruffling the fur on Hombre’s head, she set his mind at ease. “He won’t take a chunk out of you unless I tell him to.”

He forced a smile. “That’s reassuring.”

She released the hand brake. Again the pickup moved forward through the muddy water and again they lapsed into silence. It seemed an interminable amount of time before she announced, “There’s headquarters. We made it, Mr. Majors.”

Headquarters? That was a word applied to an army post or a police station. What was she talking about? “Headquarters?” he repeated, wondering if he’d misunderstood.

She realized his confusion. “Out here, that’s how we refer to the actual home of a rancher. Sometimes we call it the main house or the big house,” she schooled him. “That’s as good a way as any to make a distinction between the chuckhouse or the bunkhouse or the smaller houses located on the four-corner sections of the ranch.”

“Very innovative,” he said dryly.

She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic again or whether he was simply embarrassed at having made a dudelike inquiry.

A last yank on the hand brake and they had arrived. Colin eased himself out of the truck, then stood transfixed in the pouring rain before the awesome, two-story stone structure. The place was a far cry from the shack he’d envisioned. It was impressive in size and authentic Old West in style. Eight thousand square feet at least. He wondered if the egg on his face was visible.

Noticing his vegetative state, Elise whistled for Hombre, sauntered up the wide stone steps to the covered porch and proceeded into the foyer through the front double doors. The doors alone were enough to make him gape-a handcrafted patchwork of multicolored glass and pewter, hemmed in richly glossed wood and measuring at least twelve feet in height. “Come in out of the weather, Mr. Majors,” came the invitation from beyond the yawning portal.

Hombre knew better than to enter via the door reserved for guests and neighbors. Those who lived and worked at Cheyenne Moon always came and went through the kitchen door.

Hesitantly Colin climbed the steps and walked inside. He paused once more in the entryway, partly because of the sheer enormity of the hall, partly because he became conscious of the trail of water he was depositing on the polished parquet floor. He just stood there, drip-drying and gazing up at the hundreds of crystal teardrops dangling from the chandelier above his head. He never noticed the approach of the small, brownskinned man until he spoke to the Winston woman, and even then he hadn’t the vaguest idea what the fellow was saying, since the exchange was conducted in rapid-fire Spanish.

“I know, I know, Andele.” Her tone was conciliatory. “This here is Mr. Majors. I picked him up along the way. He’s wet and tired and I want you to make him comfortable.”

In the space of a sentence, both the lady’s tone and attitude changed. She behaved like a person comfortable with authority. But why? Surely she wasn’t in charge around here. Judging from her age, it was safe to assume she was the coddled daughter of the real owner of Cheyenne Moon. His mind jumped from one puzzle to another. He’d been so flabbergasted when first glimpsing his temporary quarters he’d missed an opportunity to see his hostess in a revealing light. Turning about to face her, he found himself staring into empty space where only a second ago she’d been standing. She was already on the porch and heading toward the pickup. He advanced an involuntary step or two toward the doorway.

She turned to him, mistaking his curiosity for apprehensiveness. “Sorry, I can’t stick around to see that you get settled in myself. Don’t worry. Andele understands English. He just doesn’t speak it very well. My hands nicknamed him Andele because he gets things done lickety-split. His real name is Miguel, but he doesn’t answer to it much anymore.” She seemed oblivious to the storm still raging about her. She just stood with a booted foot braced on the running board of the truck, carrying on a casual conversation in the midst of the whipping wind, drenching rain and staccato flashes of lightning.

“You shouldn’t go out in this again. It’s not safe,” he heard himself responding. What the hell was the matter with him? He wasn’t her mother. He wasn’t anything to her, or she to him.

His concern seemed to amuse her. “Get a good night’s sleep, Mr. Majors,” she said before climbing into the truck.

The Mexican houseboy tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow him up the freestanding winding staircase. Wordlessly Colin trailed behind, his long legs stretching to keep pace with Andele’s shorter but quicker strides. The fellow did, in fact, move like a roadrunner. The upstairs balcony circled in a hub with maybe twelve different rooms branching off like spokes on a wheel.

Halfway around the hub, Andele stopped and thrust open one of the huge doors, then stood aside so that Colin could pass.

“Gracias.” Colin’s politeness was not so much the result of good manners as the fact that he could fluently speak three words of Spanish, the other two being “si” and “bueno.” As he stepped across the threshold into the interior, it was as if he’d entered a time warp and been magically transported to old Santa Fe-sturdy pine furniture, rough cedar beams overhead, the window coverings, bed quilt and accent rugs all coordinated in what he thought of as Indian tapestry but what the top designers called the Southwestern look.

Andele breezed by him and opened a second door leading to an adjoining bathroom, giving him a glimpse of turquoise and white Spanish tiles, plus rust-colored towels and a whiff of eucalyptus. The sound of running water reclaimed his attention. Andele was preparing his bath. With amazing efficiency he flitted about, laying out towels, a sponge, toiletries and a turquoiseand-white-striped terry robe all in two minutes flat, while Colin stood rooted to the floor, observing the scene in fascination. Jeez! If he didn’t show some sign of independence, the little guy would probably strip and scrub him on the spot.

He strode to the bathroom doorway and placed a staying hand on Andele’s arm. “I appreciate the assistance, but I can take it from here. Gracias.” A pattern was quickly establishing itself. Thanking him was becoming a habit. Andele smiled broadly, revealing but one front tooth and a noticeable gap as he did so.

“Good night,” Colin said, diplomatically dismissing him, or so he believed, anyway.

“Buenos noches.” With a curt bow of his head, Andele started to withdraw.

A telephone. He’d forgotten to ask. “Phone,” he blurted, postponing Andele’s speedy exit and trying to communicate in mime his urgent need to make a call.

Andele understood his meaning without the theatrics. He pointed to the telephone located on a table under a window, then shook his head, indicating a communication problem of a different sort. “Ees broke,” he explained.

Colin crossed to the phone, snatched up the receiver and checked it out for himself. It was dead all right. Frustrated, he clicked the receiver a couple of times but to no avail. It wasn’t just a faulty connection. The storm must have knocked out service. With a sigh, he hung up the receiver.

Andele offered him an apologetic shrug. “Maybe manana,” he said by way of consolation.

“I suppose mañana will have to do.”

Andele patiently waited to see if the tall gringo desired anything further.

“Gmcias,” Colin said a third and final time, hoping Andele would take the hint. He did, disappearing from the bedroom like a puff of smoke on a strong wind.

Once certain he was alone, Colin returned to the bathroom. Peeling out of his wet clothes, he threw them in a heap on the tiled floor, removed his watch, placed it on the sink top and then eased his body into the deep tub filled with hot water and a splash of spicy scent. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, letting the steamy, pungent vapors seep into every pore. What a day it had been. He leaned his head back against the cool porcelain and closed his eyes. Suddenly the form of the Winston woman took shape on the dark side of his inner lids, the way she had looked in the rain-lean and firm, fresh and wet, moving in slow, sensuous motion toward him.

His eyes blinked open and he sat straight up in the tub. What the hell was he doing? What would make him conjure up a fantasy about her? Then, just as suddenly, another thought struck him. This was the first time in nearly four years he’d almost made it through an entire day without thinking about his ex-wife, not even once, which was as weird as daydreaming about a total stranger. He wondered if there was a connection. Recently he’d heard the rumor that his former wife was contemplating marrying again. He’d been told that his replacement was older, wealthier and in the wings before Gwen and he had even separated. At the time he’d pretended to discount the gossip about Gwen’s infidelity, but he wondered now if it might have been true, since there had been hints of it during the final months of their marriage. So, maybe, she’d been cheating on him. What difference did it make now? It was all water under the bridge, so the saying went. The flood rapids at the creek’s crossing came to mind; the urgency of traveling such a short distance over a rickety wooden bridge, the blind trust he’d placed in a woman whose driving skills had been as big a question mark as the outcome of their escape attempt. Past and present circumstances kept trading places in his brain. Water under the bridge. Water over the bridge.

Colin soaped up the sponge and began lathering his limbs, using more energy and pressure than necessary. As he considered the prospect of Gwen marrying again, a possibility he hadn’t considered about Easy Winston popped into his head. The more he thought about it, the more logical a conclusion it seemed. He’d be willing to bet the bank that she was married to some older, wealthier cattle baron. It would explain a lot. “My place” was more than likely “our place,” and actually “his place” before the “I do’s.”

He let the logic sink in as he slid under the water for a final rinse and a deserved dunking. He felt like enough of an idiot for thinking about having sex with a woman he’d known all of an hour. Now to realize he was lusting after another man’s wife. A Texan from the Hill Country might shoot you for a lesser crime.

Weighing the notion of a night of fabulous sex with the sultry Mrs. Winston against the very real prospect of winding up on the wrong end of a shotgun blast tempered his libido. “I think I’ll pass,” he mumbled, stepping from the tub and briskly toweling off.

After shaving and making use of the cellophanewrapped toothbrush, he slipped on the striped robe and made a leisurely inspection of his quarters, ending the tour with a hand-press test of the bed’s mattress. It was then that he spied the tray on the night table containing a sandwich piled high with slices of chicken, a side dish of fresh melon and a glass of iced tea. There was also a decanter of imported brandy and a snifter, both etched with the distinctive logo he’d seen at the main gates. The food and drink were compliments of Andele, he was sure.

Colin was both hungry and grateful. Not a crumb was left by the time he stretched out his six-foot frame on the bed and drained the last drop of brandy from the snifter. Full and mellow, he pulled down the covers, switched off the light and slipped his naked length between the sheets. He thought no more about his ex-wife or the ranch woman. He merely listened to the sound of the rain beating against the windows and drifted off to sleep.

HE WAS JOLTED awake a few hours later by a different sound. It took him a moment to place himself in the unfamiliar surroundings. There were noises he didn’t recognize-an eerie howling off in the distance and something or other banging in the wind outside his window.

He sat up on the edge of the bed and raked a hand through his rumpled hair. His fingers moved over the coverlet, hunting for the sensation of terry cloth. After groping around a bit, he struck pay dirt, stood and rerobed himself. Hands stretched out in front of him, he worked his way to the door, let himself out into the upstairs hall, then followed the balcony’s handrail until he reached the staircase. A faint light from below made his descent of the winding steps less tricky.

The downstairs was quiet, not a soul about, and no howling or banging noises to be heard. He followed the source of the light until he entered a den area off the main foyer. Like everything else in the house, the room was overly large. The furnishings, though refined, were a curious blend of Victorian and American West, very personalized and oddly cozy. He supposed it was a custom of the household to leave a lamp burning at night. He walked about, noting the many lush plants in clay pots stretching toward the high-beamed ceiling. The tall windows were festooned with Navajo-print swags and a grandfather clock towered in the corner. Priceless Western bronzes by Dahlberg, Remington and Lago mixed with rare antiques and pottery inlaid with turquoise and silver. On the ivory walls, expensive artwork mingled with leather gunbelts, rustic rifles and iron horseshoes. A plush Persian rug the same ivory color as the walls was contrasted against the hardwood floor. Comfy, overstuffed couches, chairs and giant ottomans were arranged in such a way as to emphasize the focal point of the room-a fireplace grander than any Colin had ever seen, made of flagstone and running nearly the entire length of one wall. His eyes were drawn to the enormous painting suspended above the pine mantel. It was a portrait of a flaxen-haired woman in a strapless ivory evening gown, her throat and neck adorned in a silver, Aztec-like collar encrusted with turquoise and bloodstone gems. Even on canvas, the woman was a knockout.

He moved closer for a better look. It was then that he noticed the gold plate at the bottom of the portrait engraved with the words Lady Pamela Walford-Winston. Both the portrait and name intrigued him.

“Restless, huh?”

Startled by the sound of a human voice, he turned about to discover Easy Winston standing in the shadows. She, too, was in a robe, her dark hair loose and flowing around her shoulders.

“Yeah, a little,” he replied, hoping he sounded casual.

The grandfather clock bonged once.

“Me, too,” she said.

“Nice. room,” he complimented.

“It’s my favorite.” She made no move to sit down.

He was uncomfortable in her presence. He wondered if she made it a practice to wander around the house while her husband slept. Was it chronic insomnia that caused her to walk the floors at night, or the fact that her husband was so much older and preferred his rest over sex? “I was admiring the portrait,” he said, stating the obvious. “I take it that it’s of the former Mrs. Winston.” Colin was fishing for an answer to the question plaguing him. He wished he could make eye contact with her, but the dim lighting thwarted his effort.

“Yes,” she supplied, her voice not betraying so much as a hint of jealousy.

In a word, his suspicion was confirmed. He looked away, amazed by the stab of disappointment he felt. “She’s very pretty, but then so are you. Your husband has good taste in women.” What an asinine thing to say. For God’s sake! He made his living by his wits and words, always knowing the perfect thing to say at a precise moment, and here he was, sticking his foot in his mouth in the middle of the night.

“My father fancied pretty ladies, Mr. Majors. Lucky for us he was a better judge of breeding stock than he was of women.” She moved out of the shadows into the light. Finally he got the chance to gaze directly into her eyes. They were the same turquoise shade as the gems in the portrait-a vibrant blue-green fringed by velvety black lashes. “My mother was his only wife, but he had plenty of lady friends in his day,” she went on to say.

He received a jolt, learning that the man under discussion was her father, not her husband, while daring the electricity behind her steady stare.

“I assumed. I mean, I thought you were the lady of the house.”

“Well, you’re partly right, Mr. Majors.” That husky laugh again. “I pretty much run everything around here, but the main house is more Andele’s territory than mine.”

Though her comeback was breezy, her mind had become weighted by a sudden and striking observation. Mr. Majors certainly cleaned up good. As a matter of fact, it hit her that he was downright croton, a word not in his vocabulary, she was sure, but one that carried a double meaning in her neck of the woods. Depending on how one said it, it could mean either pure poison or powerfully fine. In his case, it was the latter. He was tall, which she liked in a man. She could tell even without touching that he was built rock hard. Tanned skin, hair the color of caramel, rich, dark chocolate eyes-all nicely blended and looking good enough to eat.

He wasn’t handsome in the truest sense of the word. “Interesting” would be more like it. He had the sort of face a woman could study forever, never tire of and never thoroughly know. There was mystery and intelligence behind those dark eyes, and definite laugh lines at the corners. His nose was large and straight but not overbearing. Feature by feature, she supposed it was his mouth that intrigued her most. He had a great smilenot flashy or smirky or practiced, just sincere. When he smiled, that is, which he wasn’t doing at the moment. She found herself feeling uneasy, but not in an unpleasant way. What she was experiencing was purely physical, strangely intense, and bothersome on more than one level.

They became conscious of the roaring silence filling the gap in conversation. Colin cleared his throat as she stepped around him and walked to a window at the far end of the room. Her back was to him as she peered into the night. “It’s slacked up some,” she reported. “That’s a good sign.” She knew that, in typical Texas fashion, the high water would recede just as suddenly as it had swelled the creeks and swallowed up the roads. “The water ought to run off enough by midmorning to allow ya to leave. It seems you’ll only be trapped on Cheyenne Moon for the night, Mr. Majors.”

If he wasn’t careful, he knew he’d be trapped by a pair of blue green eyes and for much longer than a day. “I’ve been stuck in far less hospitable surroundings,” he said, referring to sticky cases and hostile courtroom environments.

She wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by the remark except that it was intended as a compliment. Turning to face him, she offered him a smile, along with an invitation. “Well, since you’re stuck with nothing special to do, would you care to join me in the kitchen for a nightcap of Hot Schnapps? I guarantee it’ll ward off any lingering chill and make ya sleep like a baby.”

“On one condition.” He returned her smile.

“And what might that be?”

“That you drop the Mr. Majors and call me Colin.”

“I thought you weren’t keen on getting too personal too quick,” she reminded him in a teasing tone.

“I think we’re well on our way to becoming better acquainted.” Unlike her, there was not a trace of levity in his face or voice.

She met his gaze levelly as she brushed past him. “Well, then, since we’re warming up to each other, why don’t you call me by name, too? It’s not so hard to remember the initials E and Z, is it?” She spoke soft and slow, the same way her body worked beneath the robe as she led him through the house to the kitchen.

He made the mental correction-sounds the same, only the lady was known as E.Z. not Easy. The phrase “nice and easy” came to mind as he followed her, only he substituted her initials. A devilish glimmer lit his brown eyes at contemplating the subtle implication. Was she? he wondered. Was she nice? Was she easy? Aware of the dangerous turn his thoughts had taken, he began to question if the brandy he’d already consumed had warped his senses. Are you an absolute jerk or just plain nuts? The offer was limited to sharing some Hot Schnapps; it did not extend to hot bodies thrashing around between the sheets. Her intent was to sedate him, not seduce him. So she’d gotten tagged with a pet name, like Miguel. So it was a bit suggestive. Don’t blow it out of proportion, and for heaven’s sake, don’t make any wisecracks, he coached himself. He wondered what the E stood for-Elizabeth, Erica, Elaine. Then again, what did it matter? His rational self knew there was no chance in hell of winding up in the sack with his hostess. It was preposterous. Instant chemistry and spontaneous sex happened in the movies or in his wildest dreams. It didn’t happen between real peopleand virtual strangers at that. Still, a secret and impulsive part of him wished it could happen. Tonight. with her. whatever her real name might be.

He lingered in the kitchen doorway, his gaze following her every move. As she squatted down to retrieve a bottle of schnapps from the bottom shelf of the open hutch, the neckline of her robe separated, affording him a view of sun-bronzed breasts. He tried to resist, to remain unaffected, to curb his lust for a perfect stranger. Though he made a conscious effort, at some point between his brain and his groin area, the message got scrambled. His body could not deny a reaction his sensible self knew was absurd.

E.Z. glanced up at him from her crouched position. When her gaze locked with his, the words she’d been about to utter melted away under the heat of his smoldering eyes. She knew she should ignore the raw wanting reflected in the dark pools confronting her, but a completely foreign and strangely primitive urge deep inside refused to turn away from the unspoken suggestion hovering in the safe space between them.

She’d never been accused of being coy or, for that matter, especially diplomatic. The mistress of Cheyenne Moon was a very direct person. Sometimes it got her in trouble. Though she had a reputation for being a good-hearted and fair person, it was also a well-established fact that the Winston woman had a tendency to be plainspoken, at times hot-tempered, and tough as nails when need be. True to form, she knew no other way to approach the matter at hand except headon. Other than the barely perceptible lift of her chin, there was not the slightest indication that his obvious scrutiny of her partially bared breasts rattled her in the least.

“I get the distinct feelin’ that you’re in the mood for something more stimulatin’ than what I’m offerin’,” she said flatly.

He knew perfectly well she could read his mind. What’s more, he instantly realized it would be a mistake to try to gloss over what was already a sticky situation. Why not be as honest as she was. “You’re very instinctive,” was his cool reply.

She straightened up but defiantly did not touch the neckline of her robe. Setting the bottle of schnapps on the dining table, she rested a hand on one of the ladderback chairs, the other on a hip, and assessed him. “I don’t mind a man lookin’ at me. A woman can’t be the shrinking-violet type and run roughshod over a bunch of cowboys,” she said matter-of-factly.

“I suppose not,” he agreed. He had to respect her grit. Such candor in a woman was unusual.

She turned away on the pretext of being completely absorbed with hunting through a kitchen cabinet for a pair of shot glasses. Colin hadn’t budged from his position at the doorway when she returned to the table. “Well, are you going to just stand there gawkin’ at me or take a chair?” she challenged.

He followed her lead, settling opposite her at the table and pretending to be equally as absorbed in watching her fill the shot glasses to the brim with the cinnamon-flavored schnapps. He noted that she’d managed to discreetly adjust the lapels of her robe while her back had been to him, but decided not to comment.

She shoved a shot glass in his direction, picked up her own and held it suspended above the center of the table with a gesture for him to do likewise.

He clinked his glass against hers. “What are we drinking to?” he asked.

“You name it,” she countered.

He supposed “sudden encounters and great sex” might be pushing it a bit. Instead, he opted for something less obvious. “How about we drink to stormy starts and satisfying endings?” he proposed.

She returned his sly grin. “Fine with me,” she said, tipping the glass to her lips and quaffing down the pungent, liquor in one giant gulp.

Her nonchalance intrigued him. Not to be outdone by a woman, he drank down the nightcap in the same cavalier fashion.

Her immediate impression of him might’ve been wrong. At the moment he didn’t seem nearly as stiff and contrary as she’d first thought. She surveyed him thoughtfully. “So, are ya married, Colin?” she heard herself asking, unable to believe what had just come out of her mouth. It went against all of her principles, everything she’d been taught since a child. It was an unwritten rule not to delve into another’s personal affairs. “Sorry. That’s none of my business. I had no right to pry.”

He reached for the bottle and replenished their glasses. “I don’t mind the question,” he replied honestly. “I’m divorced.” He studied her, taking in every detail of her freshly scrubbed face. Not a trace of makeup and still she was breathtaking.

She merely nodded and accepted the refill he pushed in her direction. That was that. No follow-up to the personal inquiry.

They nursed their drinks in silence. The tick, tick, ticking of the old school clock on the kitchen wall grew more noticeable.

Finally he spoke up. “I haven’t really thanked you properly for rescuing me today and putting me up for the night,” he said half-apologetically.

“There’s no need to thank me. I woulda done as much for anybody caught out in that awful weather.”

He could have done without the offhand shrug that followed. It didn’t exactly make him feel special.

Nor did it exactly convey her true regard for him. Hardly. Colin Majors was definitely special. Oh, sure she would have helped out any poor soul stranded in that storm. But had she rescued a less appealing man, she sure as hell wouldn’t be missing any sleep in order to play hostess to him in the wee small hours of the morning. That was the real truth of it.

He continued to carry the conversation, making small talk, wondering if he was, in some way, making a positive impression on her in the process. They discussed ranch life briefly. They talked about politics generally. The only common denominator they struck upon was a passion for the game of basketball, and even there they differed-she being a die-hard San Antonio Spurs fan and he believing that the Houston Rockets would sweep the playoffs this year.

He sensed she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Insane as it seemed, he found himself wanting this woman like he’d wanted no other since his wife. Gwen was history. E.Z. was a current event. here and now…at this table.just an arm’s length away. What should he do? Continue to make small talk? Pretend that his heart wasn’t beating double-time or that this irresistible urge to make love to the flesh-and-blood woman so near to him didn’t exist? Only an iron man could let the moment go by. But what could he say? Please don’t take offense, but does your hospitality extend to allowing me the courtesy of making wild love to you? It was a ludicrous idea. One he instantly discounted.

She sat listening to the rain’s rhythm against the window. Now and then she threw a glance his way. What was she waiting for? They’d obviously run the gambit of pleasant conversation. They hadn’t much in common; nothing left to say to each other. They barely knew each other. Would he-be shocked to know how much his earlier come-on had affected her? Maybe he was accustomed to having his way with the ladies. He certainly had the look of a man who could satisfy a woman. What was she thinking? Her mind was moving into dangerous territory, all right. Best to leave things well enough alone. Say good-night and forget about this handsome stranger sharing her house. Yet somehow the crazy setting seemed so natural-as if he belonged in her kitchen, as if he was meant to keep her company, as if he’d been destined to don her father’s favorite robe and wear it as comfortably as her father had. As if Colin Majors was a part of the unfolding saga of Cheyenne Moon. Her thoughts were out of control. She was playing with fire by giving them free reign. Her recent discontent and secret loneliness must be getting the better of her. Abruptly she stood up and took her glass to the sink. “Well, I’m feelin’ less antsy,” she lied. “You’re welcome to the bottle.”

It surprised her to find him repositioned in the doorway when she pivoted to make a speedy exit. He moved like a jungle cat. He was staring at her with that same degree of intensity that had caused a warm rush to travel the length of her body in an instant. It was happening again, this immediate reaction, and the fact that she could neither dismiss it nor control it was the most unnerving part of all. An exchange of polite good-nights was not his intent. She knew he wanted more. The question was, did he know he’d touched on a weak spot within her, the existence of which not even she had recognized until this very moment, and which frightened her to the very core of her being? Instinct told her not to give in to such foolish desire. She could overcome this sudden weakness for a man if she blocked out the disturbing fact that he was the first to cause her heart to somersault in her chest and her tongue to tangle when he looked deep into her eyes, as if he thought there was something hidden, maybe even forbidden, for only him to see. “Something else on your mind, Colin?” she asked, somehow managing to maintain a casual demeanor.

“Yeah. you. You’re on my mind. I know it’s nuts, but I can’t see the harm in two people sharing a moment that, if one of them doesn’t speak up, will pass.” There, he’d said it out loud. What the hell! He might as well play it out. “I don’t want to lie in my bed all night wondering what we would be like together. There’s a chemistry between us. If you’re half as honest as 1 think you are, you won’t deny it.” He ended the confession on a dare.

He had her there. She wasn’t any good at guile games. “Wasn’t it you who told me that you generally like to know a woman better before playing grab-ass?” she asked, not attempting to disguise the “gotcha” expression on her face.

He leaned a shoulder to the doorjamb and cast her a rakish grin. “A man’s entitled to retract a statement made under duress.”

His comeback produced a throaty laugh. “Look here, Mr. Majors-”

“Colin,” he corrected her.

“Colin,” she obliged him. “First off, I don’t make a habit of falling into bed with any and every man who drifts onto my land. As a matter of fact, I’m having a hard time recalling when it was that I last made love. Running a ranch this size is a big job. It’s long hours and hard work. I worry about droughts and screwworms infecting my herds, not the prospect of having an orgasm. Which brings me to the second and probably most convincing reason for us sharing a drink rather than a bed.” She paused to catch her breath.

“Which is?” he prompted.

His cocky look made her want to shock him. Colin Majors couldn’t hold a candle to the rowdy cowhands she dealt with on a daily basis. She was accustomed to men’s ways and could be as headstrong and as crass as the best of them, if need be. “I’m probably way too wild a cowgirl for a city slicker like you. And I sure don’t fancy being the object of your locker-room boastin’ at the country club. Besides which, even though you may not have a missus, I got no doubts you’re expected somewhere by someone, Mr. Majors.” She purposely distanced him and needled him all at once by reducing him to mister status again. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for delaying you even further.” She’d meant to be flip and demonstrated as much with a toss of her brunette head. Her smile was equally as smug as his.

He appreciated her spunk and enjoyed the sparring match. Cocking a brow, he simply said, “My schedule is flexible and I’m not so sure that a city slicker like me isn’t an equal match for a spunky cowgirl like you. I’m willing to risk it.”

The gall of the man! Was he actually smirking? “Well, I’m not willing to risk it,” she shot back. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for less than you expected. I’m going to bed. Alone.” That was her last word on the subject.

But it was Colin who made the final move as she attempted to sweep past him. His arm snaked out, coiling about her waist, drawing her in and locking her tight against his granite length. Without warning, he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her long and deep. Her response surprised her as much as it did him. He expected resistance to his advances, but she did not struggle to extricate herself from his grip. She expected to remain impassive, then spurn him with an exaggerated wipe of her mouth after the act. Instead, she responded to his kiss with equal ardor. The same glib tongue that had just a moment ago lashed his manly ego now whetted his appetite for the passion he yearned to sample. Something that should not have happened-an erotic fantasy that should never have been given full vent-was taking a twist neither one had anticipated.

“Locker-room brag isn’t my style,” he murmured, sliding a hand up her back and gently cupping her neck. “Trust me, E.Z.” His hungry mouth traced the curve of her throat. “You’re my sweet secret. Let’s make a wild memory. I promise never to share it with another living soul.”

IT WAS ONE of the stormiest nights ever to have beset Cheyenne Moon. It caused the seasoned hands in the bunkhouse to reminisce about old times and try to top one another’s stories about other bad storms they had witnessed. The fresh-faced newcomers listened intently to the tales, never knowing what was truth and what was pure exaggeration.

Gleaning reality from fantasy was not always an easy proposition. Though the boss lady was a savvy woman and rarely got taken in by the practical jokes played in fun or the wild yarns spun around a camp fire, she’d fallen for a good-looking, smooth-as-silk stranger in a heat-flash.

If someone had told the crew in the bunkhouse what was transpiring up in the big house, none of the boys would’ve believed a word of it. Nobody would be laughing and the fella spreadin’ such a lie would be horsewhipped. Anybody who knew Elise Winston knew she wasn’t a gullible gal. She was foolish over only one thing-the land that had belonged to her family for better than a century. She might take risks where it was concerned, but never would she lose her head or act rashly because of some man.

CHAPTER THREE

THE WEATHER SYSTEM moved out of Bandera County about 4 a.m., which was approximately the same time Elise slipped out of the guest room and made her way to her own sleeping quarters down the hall. She eased into the master suite, softly shut the door, then leaned back against the solid wood, taking a moment to collect herself.

As the dense cloud cover rolled back to the west, making way for the break of dawn to the east, most everybody else on the ranch was taking advantage of the best hour of sleep-the one that came right before they were ousted out of a deep, dreamy slumber and had to face the endless cycle of chores for the next twelve. Everyone, that is, except for Luther, the cook, who routinely rose hours before the others, and the boss lady, who’d whiled away the night making love with a man she hardly knew. In stark contrast to the clearing skies over Cheyenne Moon, the past few hours of hazy lovemaking clung to Elise like morning fog, its surreal effect wafting over her and making murky mush of her mind. She couldn’t seem to shake the passion that had clouded her senses and stormed her heart.

She gave it another try, pulling away from the support of the door and drawing a long, replenishing breath. Whenever she was troubled, she paced like a cougar on the prowl. Sometimes it was only the action itself that made her aware of being in a state of flux. She’d catch herself doing it and know something was amiss inside her. This time she knew in advance. It amazed her she could feel so many contradictory emotions at once-satisfied but wanting, wonderful but wretched, embarrassed but excited, unrepentant but remorseful.

Lifting her hair off her neck, she gave in to the urge to twirl about. She spun around the room, a humming, carefree soul for a brief, totally out-of-character moment. Suddenly she drew up short, the sparkle in her eyes snuffed out by a glimpse of lavender hanging on the back of an opened closet door. The mere sight of the sundress dampened her spirits, the significance of it bringing reality crashing down around her shoulders and weighting her conscience like lead. One second drunk on desire, the next as sober as if she’d taken a dunking in Whistling Creek.

God A’mighty, what had gotten into her? She sank to the edge of the bed, falling back flat against the mattress with a groan. There was no denying she’d acted the fool, letting her tainted hot blood overtake her cool head. What must Colin Majors think of her? Not much, her disgusted self answered. He was probably smirking to himself this very minute, thinking she was either the dumbest or the horniest woman in all of Texas. Whereas, even knowing how loco a thing it was to have done, if she was lying on her death bed this very moment and rehashing the lows and highs of her days, undoubtedly she would recall the wild interlude with Colin Majors fondly. For surely it would be one of the most memorable nights and probably the best sex of her life. As badly as she hated to admit it, if she were given the chance to backup and do it differently, she wasn’t real sure she would forgo the experience.

“You can’t undo what’s done. Might as well quit moping about your sorry self, get off your backside and get about your day. Face him down when you must,” she told herself in no uncertain terms.

It was easier said than done. As she went about readying herself for what she knew was going to be a hard morning after, the worry about confronting Colin Majors again kept creeping into her head. What would his reaction to her be? Would he act as if nothing had taken place between them? Or would he feel awkward, so much so that it showed? Damn, but she dreaded having to look on his handsome face again. Maybe he would just cut out without saying a word. But that was unlikely, since he was miles from anywhere without transportation. Part of her hated the thought of his leaving, which was about as crazy a notion as the thought of him staying.

She showered hurriedly, tugged on her socks, boots and a fresh pair of Levi’s. Donning a clean denim shirt, she whipped a brush through her burnished hair, slicked it back and secured the sleek length at the nape of her neck with a tortoiseshell clip. The boys would be expecting her to take breakfast with them at the chuckhouse as usual. She prayed they wouldn’t notice the telltale blush of great sex still lingering on her skin. She was in no mood for their ribbing. She had a lot more important things on her mind, like how to handle the problem of bidding her houseguest adieu. Ranch life had exposed her to a lot of different men-all the wranglers who’d come and gone throughout the years. It was an isolated world in which she existed-primarily a man’s realm. Though each of the men she’d known was a colorful individual with a style all his own, as a group they had a few traits in common. They treasured their freedom almost as much as they liked to linger around a camp fire, sipping coffee, swapping stories and kidding each other unmercifully. And one thing they couldn’t abide was a sticky goodbye, especially when it came to bidding farewell to a woman, and most particularly when it was a woman they wished to be rid of. She’d heard them say they’d prefer being gored or bucked or snake-bit over having to endure a prolonged parting packed with lies. It was ten times more painful than saddle sores.

With a determined set to her jaw, she walked over to the mirror and squared the Stetson on her head. “I’ll make it easy for you, Colin,” she said out loud, trying to convince herself. “It was nothin’ personal, just passing acquaintances who shared a ride and casual sex.”

Yet when she passed his closed bedroom door, she paused for a moment. Colin Majors had touched her in a way that was hard to dismiss. He had ignited the fiery yearnings she claimed to dispossess. He’d blown in on the wind and rain and stirred up a maelstrom of emotions within her. Well, at least his appearance in her life had jarred her out of a complacency she’d nearly accepted. The solid and seemingly natural direction she’d been set upon before his arrival no longer seemed so sure a course for her to follow. But then, he’d never know the crucial part he’d played in altering her future.

Images swirled in her head-him frozen like a deer in her headlights, then leaping out of harm’s way at the last possible second; their entwined bodies moving in feverish rhythm to a serenade of fading rain. All at once she was struck by the strange irony of their brief encounter. She might’ve been the one responsible for knocking him off his feet in the beginning, but he was the one who’d knocked the props out from under her in the end. Her fingertips lightly trailed across his bedroom door as she moved away. “Nice knowin’ you, Colin,” she whispered. She sincerely meant it. He’d been a delicious reprieve from the daily grind and the loneliness that sometimes felt as if it might swallow her whole. And in the biblical sense, knowing him had been as fine an experience as any woman could ever hope for. Truly fine.

COLIN WAS SHOWERED and dressed and in the kitchen, in the hopes of seeing her, a mere thirty minutes later. He was anxious to judge her reaction to the bizarre set of circumstances that had taken control of them through the night. More to the point, he felt compelled to confront those blue green eyes in the cold light of day. What private message would they telegraph him? For once in his life, he actually felt uncertain of his ability to express himself adequately. How could he convey to a woman he barely knew the specialness of what they’d shared? How could such strong feelings be reduced to mere words? Dared he risk it? What if he came across sounding foolish or, worse yet, as if he was accustomed to playing one-night stands and delivering practiced lines.

Deprived of rest, bothered by the combustible chemistry between them and a physical attraction he himself did not fully understand or accept, he wondered how in the hell he could convince her that something more complex than hard-core sex had occurred last night? In some mysterious and profound way, the ranchwoman had marked him with her E.Z.-ness in much the same fashion as everything else around this place was branded. In a few short hours, her hot aura had seared his flesh and was indelibly burned into his memory. It was crazy but true. More than anything, he wanted an opportunity to know her better, to explore all the softer facets lurking beneath the diamond-tough surface.

Though they’d engaged in more physical activity than conversation, he’d learned a few things about her. She’d told him that her family roots ran deep and were imbedded in this ranch land, and it was obvious how dearly she’d loved her father and how fiercely protective she was of her heritage. When she spoke of Roe Winston, her voice was full of respect and loyalty; however, such was not the case when Colin had again brought up the subject of the portrait and tried to delve into the background of Lady Pamela Walford-Winston. When it came to her mother, E.Z. had little to say, none of which was flattering. And though she mentioned a brother, she did not elaborate, except to say he was five years younger and precious to her.

He enjoyed her sense of humor. The lady was as naturally easy as her nickname implied. What’s more, he discovered that his first impression of her had been right: she was every bit as passionate as her looks suggested. He couldn’t help but make the comparison to his ex-wife. Making love to E.Z. was akin to riding an intense Texas heat wave. She created a thirst within a man that made him want to drink her in quenching gulps. Gwen had been more like a cool, smooth libation, light refreshment sampled in measured sips. He’d been hungry for many things in his life-money, success, professional recognition-but thirsting for a woman was a new sensation for him, one he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Yet wary as he was of being the one consumed rather than the consumer, his need to know whether the sensation was fleeting or something more lasting in nature was even greater.

So here he stood, in her kitchen, his palms sweating and heart pounding, waiting for her to appear.

Minutes passed. Spying the coffeepot, he poured himself a cup of the steamy brew and sat down at the table. He drummed his fingers and glanced at the clock, finding it unbelievable that he was even up at this unholy hour. The earliest he’d ever made it into the office was eight. It wasn’t even six yet. He thought ranch people were supposed to rise and do whatever it was they did with the chickens. Where was everybody? The place was like a mausoleum.

Finally the sound of approaching boot steps. Someone paused on the back porch. Colin grabbed the untouched newspaper from the center of the table and did his best to appear nonchalant. At the creak of the screen door, he lifted his glance from the headlines, only to peer into a pair of deep-set gray eyes wedged between a maze of wrinkles and sagging lids.

“Mornin’,” the old man grunted as he stepped inside and removed his dusty hat.

“Morning,” Colin echoed, exerting great effort to hide his disappointment.

“The name’s Riley-Riley James. Miz Winston sent me to carry you into San Antonio. Whenever you’re ready, that is.” Ill at ease himself, Riley scratched his stubbled neck as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You ate yet?” he inquired.

“No.” Colin’s reply sounded more irritated than stunned. Actually he was both.

“Well, no hurry,” Riley assured him, settling his stooped form in a chair at the opposite end of the table. “Andele will fix ya up and I don’t mind keepin’ ya company. Matter o’ fact, another cup of coffee would hit the spot.” He favored Colin with a lazy grin. “Sure would like a plug o’tobacco to go along with my coffee, but Miz Winston don’t allow chewin’ in the big house. She don’t much trust our aim when we spit.”

Andele breezed through the swinging door, carrying an armload of dirty linens to the adjacent laundry room.

“Buenos dias,” the spry Mexican chirped as he blew past them. “Un momento.”

The old man made a big production of clearing the phlegm from his throat as he shoved back the chair and ambled over to the stove. “Yeah, ya better feed this fella so’s we kin get under way, Andele.” He wet a finger, testing the temperature of the blue-and-white-speckled coffeepot simmering on the burner. Satisfied it wasn’t too hot to handle, he grabbed a mug from the counter and poured himself a cup of the stout java. “Miz Winston wants me back out at South Camp by lunchtime.”

“Si, I take care of pronto.” Andele began slinging skillets, frying up ham and scrambling eggs in double-time. Fresh-squeezed orange juice appeared at Colin’s elbow in a blink.

“Quick, ain’t he?” the old gent snickered between sips of his coffee.

Colin concurred with a nod of his head.

“Might as well throw an extra slice of that there ham in the skillet, Andele. Drop a few extra biscuits while you’re at it. Roads might be slow after the rain ‘n all. There’s a chance I won’t make it back before lunch and it’s a long stretch till supper. Figure I need a bite to tide me over.” Riley knew he had the dubious reputation of having an appetite that was greatly disproportionate to his work habits, but it didn’t bother him overly much.

Colin was only half paying attention to Riley’s breakfast order. He was more interested in finding out why he was sharing the table with him rather than E.Z.

“I was hoping to see Miss Winston this morning. Where is she, anyway?” He tried to pry the information out of the whiskered emissary.

“She’s out at South Camp. Storms have a way of spookin’ the cattle. Gotta scour the countryside in search of ‘em. Ya wouldn’t believe some of the tight places they kin hole up in,” he explained. “She ‘n the boys rode watch over the herd part of the night, but there’s always a few strays that’s gotta be rounded up and brought in.”

So that was why she went back out into the storm, Colin reasoned, marveling at the sheer stamina of the woman.

Andele placed a plate heaped high with ham, eggs, grits and biscuits before each of them. Riley immediately started scooping the tasty vittles into his watering mouth.

Colin had the good manners to at least thank Andele before filling his fork.

Riley merely offered the Mexican an indelicate burp. His appreciation was understood. No need to go ‘round thankin’ a body every time they done somethin’ they was paid to do anyways. That was his philosophy.

True to form, Andele left them to their breakfast and hurried off to tend to his next chore.

Colin decided to try a different approach with the old geezer. “I really was hoping to thank Miss Winston for her hospitality. How far away is South Camp?”

“It’s a fer piece,” was the scant information provided. Riley swallowed a mouthful of coffee and studied him over the edge of the mug. “It ain’t necessary for you to chase her down to tell her that. Takin’ folks in outta the weather is just common courtesy.” The logic he put forth made perfect sense to him.

“All the same, I’d like to say goodbye,” Colin persisted with a determined chomp of ham.

“Well, I dunno,” Riley stated ponderously. “Miz Winston might not take kindly to the notion o’ me haulin’ you out there. She might accuse me of dawdling ‘cause she knows I don’t care much for chasin’ down steers in the heat o’ the day.”

“I’ll explain that I insisted.” Colin intended to see her again if he had to walk to South Camp.

“Yeah, well.” Riley sopped up the last of his eggs with a hunk of biscuit, shoveled it into his mouth and rolled it around the same as he rolled around the idea of cartin’ the pilgrim out to the lower range. “I suppose it’d be okay for me to run ya by. To tell you the truth, Miz Winston has me pegged. I ain’t real keen on sittin’ a saddle no more. I’d rather ride that pickup out yonder.”

For the first time that morning, Colin smiled. “Good, then it’s settled. I’ll just go gather my things and we can get started.”

“Whatever you say.” Riley swiped his shirtsleeve across his mouth and let loose with another belch. “Only don’t blame me if she ain’t excited at seein’ ya. The woman’s one-minded where work’s concerned and kinda short on patience when it comes to somebody interruptin’ her schedule.”

“I’ll consider myself warned.” Colin couldn’t care less if his unexpected intrusion upset her work schedule. He was not about to leave Cheyenne Moon without a word or an inkling as to what part he might have in her future.

It was a bumpy trip to South Camp. The rain-rutted road cut through long stretches of grazing land. The brunt of the conversation was carried by Riley. For the most part, Colin tuned him out, concentrating, instead, on the native habitat of the wild cowgirl he’d body-wrestled with the previous night and the longhorns that roamed the area at will.

Not until Riley stated that they were nearing the area in question did he snap to attention. “It’s just around the bend. I figure she’s still at the camp house. Her and Andy Smallwood was hashin’ out buyin’ fresh breedin’ bulls at the upcoming stock sale over in Luckenbach next month.”

As the pickup drew closer to the wood-frame house, his pulse quickened. The place was set between two giant shade trees in the middle of a vast panorama of grasslands encircled by a natural barrier of swelling hills. In spite of the glare of the sun and the screen enclosing the wraparound front porch, he recognized E.Z.’s shapely figure immediately. As Riley had predicted, she was talking with a lanky man Colin assumed to be Andy Smallwood. Even from a distance Colin could plainly make out a certain carriage of authority about the ranch manager as he propped a foot on a chair rung, rested his forearm on a knee and argued a point with E.Z.

Their heads jerked up simultaneously as the pickup came to a stop short of the hitching rail out front. The manager eased himself to an upright position and took measure of the unknown caller as Colin got out of the truck and came up the walk. E.Z. displayed no surprise, at least not outwardly, at his unexpected appearance. She merely strolled out the screen door, tucked her hands into the back pockets of her snug-fitting jeans and waited for him to draw near.

Now that he actually faced her, Colin hadn’t the vaguest notion how to behave. He glanced up at the man behind the screen, then over to the woman seated in a rocking chair on a far corner of the porch, whom he hadn’t noticed until now. The plump matron swayed to and fro, the wicker rocker creaking with each backward motion and her bare feet tapping the porch floorboards with every forward swing. She was as plain as the alamo switchgrass covering the countryside; almost homely. And she was studying him. For that matter, so was E.Z.

“What brings you this way? I thought you’d be on the road to San Antonio by now,” she said.

His mouth went dry. He wished for a drink of water, wished he’d heeded Riley’s advice and not bothered with saying goodbye. Now that he thought about it, maybe that was the way she’d have preferred it. Maybe she’d pegged him for some demented sex maniac and purposely arranged to be absent when he departed Cheyenne Moon. Maybe he’d been too filled with romantic notions to realize her intent and was about to make a colossal ass of himself.

“I thought I should say goodbye personally. I wanted to thank you for.” He hesitated when their gazes collided. In the bright sunlight, those blue green eyes possessed a startling clarity, as though capable of penetrating the outer layers of a person and peering straight into the soul. “For everything,” he managed to get out.

For a long, painfully awkward moment, she just stared at him, as if she was weighing the actions of the previous night and sizing up the man all at once.

“I appreciate your taking the time to track me down, Mr. Majors. It was no trouble a’tall to put you up for the night.” Such was her noncommittal response. But he thought he detected a hint of melancholy, a flicker of some betraying emotion that swept across her face and crept into her voice a split second before she extended her hand.

The creak of the rocker and the rustle of tree leaves stirring on a gentle breeze were the only sounds filling the hot air. The two of them were oblivious to Andy Smallwood’s approach until he drew dead even with them. He acknowledged Colin with a respectful dip of his head and a touch of a hand to the brim of his Stetson.

“Yes, well, perhaps we’ll see each other again,” Colin said to E.Z. Aware of watching eyes taking in their every move, he was doing his best to conduct himself in a manner that would not betray their secret tryst or compromise her good name. The only means by which he could communicate his intimate regard for her was a firm and lingering squeeze of her fingertips.

Feeling Mamie Smallwood’s gaze boring through her back, E.Z. extricated her hand from his grip, swallowed the lump in her throat and shrugged off the silly hope that he might mean what he said. “Well, you know where to find me should you happen to pass this way again.” It was not exactly an open invitation to visit, but neither had she slammed shut the door on the possibility of future contact.

There was nothing left to say now. He knew it and so did she. As if on cue, Riley started up the truck. With a nod and a parting smile, Colin turned his back to her, climbed into the truck and went his own way. After all, they both had very separate lives to get on with.

E.Z. returned to the porch. Mamie raised a brow in silent question.

“He’s nobody special, Mamie. Just somebody I rescued from the road yesterday,” she explained.

“That so,” her friend said in her usual dry fashion.

Standing at the screen door, E.Z. stared after the truck until it became a speck in the distance. “I suppose he broke up the monotony a bit,” she admitted.

“He’s sure a fine-lookin’ man.”

Knowing her friend like she did, E.Z. was well aware that the casual observation carried a subtle probe. “Don’t make more of it than is there, Mamie.”

“I reckon it’s no different than making less of it than is there,” was the astute comeback.

The two women traded looks. It was then that Mamie knew for certain that the man was a complication in Elise Winston’s life, and not a minor one, either. Nope. Considering the circumstances, she’d venture a guess that the tall, tanned pilgrim had pretty much put a hitch in E.Z.’s plans.

CHAPTER FOUR

COLIN HAD NO DIFFICULTY getting back on course once Riley deposited him in San Antonio. Since the boss lady had ordered the old wrangler to take good care of Mr. Majors, he’d done exactly as instructed, driving him to a reputable garage and supplying the exact location of the out-of-commission Mercedes to the tow truck driver. Though Colin tried to assure him he could handle the remaining arrangements himself, Riley hung around the garage, drinking soda pop and making small talk with the mechanics while Colin spoke to his insurance agent and got the matter of his stranded vehicle completely resolved.

“We’re in luck. There’s a satellite claims office here jn San Antonio. The agent said to have my car towed directly there and they’ll fix me up with a rental.”

Riley apparently wanted to make certain he could tell E.Z. that the pilgrim was on his way to parts unknown when he’d left him. “Hop in ‘n I’ll carry ya over to the claims place.”

Colin considered declining the offer, but Riley seemed to think of him as his personal responsibility. It was more expedient to let the old man complete his babysitting assignment than debate the point. Four blocks and a handshake later, Riley was headed back to Cheyenne Moon, and Colin was inside the claims office asking to borrow their phone.

It startled him to hear his cousin’s voice on the opposite end of the line. They hadn’t conversed very much through the years.

“I figured you’d be callin’.” His cousin had a slow, heavy drawl that made every elongated syllable he uttered the same consistency as lead. Hud acted as though words were either a precious commodity or a real bother. He sometimes butchered the English language, but he never squandered it. He preferred to dole out his words sparingly.

“I got delayed by yesterday’s storm. The high water washed out my car.”

“Where are ya?”

“San Antonio.” Colin began measuring his words, also. He did not want to reveal too much of what had occurred during the past twenty-four hours to his cousin. It was none of Hud’s business, and he’d meant it when he’d promised E.Z. to keep private matters private. He did not want to risk compromising her standing in this community by loose words that could be strung together to make idle gossip.

“Need a ride?”

“No, just directions from San Antonio. I’ve made arrangements for a rental car. Did I miss the meeting with the oil company rep?”

“Naw. He postponed comin’ out. Supposed to show up this afternoon. Had better sense than to try it yesterday.”

His meaning was clear-only a damn fool would’ve braved such a gully washer. Colin envisioned his cousin smirking into the receiver. Ever since they were boys, Hud had had a way of ticking him off with his briny brand of humor: It was probably a good thing they hadn’t been thrown together very often throughout the years. Colin had the impression that Hud got immense pleasure out of cutting the younger, city-bred, University of Baylor graduate down to size. Of course, it was done in slow, mocking doses of dry West Texas wit-a trait Hud had inherited from the other side of his family and perfected by age ten.

“Yeah, well, I just wanted to let you know I’m okay in case you were forming a search party.” It was on the tip of his tongue to remind his ungrateful cousin that if he had simply refused his request for free legal advice, he would’ve avoided this disastrous trip-the grueling drive, the pleasure of floating like flotsam on ravaging flood waters, the loss of a brand-new Mercedes. Then he thought of his rescuer and, in spite of it all, considered himself lucky. Had it not been for Hud’s mistrust of strangers and unwillingness to part with a dollar, his path might never have crossed with E.Z. Winston’s. That truly would’ve been a loss, a very personal one.

“Got a pencil?” His cousin’s voice reclaimed him.

“Yeah. And don’t send me via any shortcuts. I want to stick to the main roads.”

Hud obliged, ending with, “It’ll take ya longer.”

It was Colin’s turn to smirk. “Maybe, but I’d just as soon avoid taking another swim in a ravine with mesquite branches scraping my ass. See you in an hour or so.”

UPON RILEY’S RETURN to Cheyenne Moon, he reported to Elise that Mr. Majors was, by this time, well on his way to wherever he’d originally been headed. She received the news with a dismissing nod. Neither Riley nor anyone else at the ranch, with the exception, perhaps, of Mamie Smallwood, gave the overnight houseguest another thought. Elise did her best to put him out of her mind, also, by burying herself in therapeutic work. The day passed quickly. With sunset came the usual quiet that settled over Cheyenne Moon at the end of a hard day. Supper had been devoured and the hands were unwinding in the bunkhouse or lolling about on the grounds. Elise had no appetite. Her supper sat untouched on the kitchen table inside the big house. Andele noticed her ensconced in the porch swing beyond the back screen door.

He addressed her in Spanish, asking if she wished him to rewarm the food.

“Has Buddy eaten?”

“Si,” he told her.

“Then just clear it away. I’m not hungry tonight.” He heard something more than mere weariness in her tone.

“Is the senorita sick?” he asked, worried.

Sensing he was studying her through the screen door, she angled herself in the swing so he couldn’t read her face. “Just moody, I guess. Call it a day, Andele. I know you’re anxious to be off. I’ll see you on Monday.”

It was obvious she wished to be left alone, and Andele was happy to abide by her wishes. One weekend a month he traveled south to return to his roots in Mexico. Once the table was cleared, he retrieved a faded gym bag he’d earlier stowed in the broom closet, bid the kind senorita adios and sprinted down the main drive to meet up with the van full of other homesick Mexican laborers heading for the border at full speed. Elise sat studying the faint star clusters. The sway of the porch swing was soothing. She loved this hushed time on the ranch. The quiet, the stars and the cool touch of night air on her face had a calming effect. Generally she treasured such a moment, especially after spending hours on end with a bunch of rowdy men. Tonight, however, these very same things-the quiet, the distant stars, the cool night air-only served to underscore a feeling of aloneness she rarely acknowledged. It was too quiet after the stimulating exchanges she and Colin had briefly traded, and the stars were a reminder of the great distance between them. She and he might as well be light-years apart for all the differences that separated them. A close encounter of foreign bodies might make for a good sci-fi script, but when the same event was translated into romantic terms, it came off more like a soft-porn novel. Yet the sex between them had been anything but sleazy, and the strong feelings that had prompted the act nothing but honest. The accidental collision was perhaps unorthodox, definitely unreal, but never, ever would she characterize the sex she’d shared with the Dallasite as tawdry.

She had regrets about the whole affair. The fact that she’d let her guard down and given in to the hot blood that flowed through her veins disturbed her greatly. But most of all she regretted having gone to bed with a man she had no chance of ever knowing in the deep way she’d like to have known him.

Engrossed in remembering in vivid detail the kisses and touch of a man who had promised nothing and left with only a vague hint that he might return, Elise did not hear her brother come up the back porch steps.

“Ya thinkin’ hard on somethin’, E.Z.?” Buddy Winston settled on the top step. Stretching out his long legs, he leaned back on his hands, took careful aim and spat a wad of chewing gun dead center in the rock garden Andele had designed and now tended with artistlike fervor.

It never ceased to amaze Elise how handsome a young man Buddy had become. Tall, like their father. Fair, like their mother. Sweet and honest, as so many folks only wished they could be. Perfect in every way-except one. His mind had not developed beyond that of an eight-year-old child, which made him fragile and vulnerable, which made her adore and protect him all the more.

She smiied down at him. “I was just thinking how much I’ve missed seeing your funny face around here the past few days. Did you have fun with Stu in Kerrville?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “His folks are nice. They treated me real good. We went to the picture show. Had ice cream both nights, too.” He beamed as he related the details of his trip to Kerrville. Stu Petty was one of the younger “punks” who’d recently come to work at the ranch. Buddy had instantly taken a shine to him. When he learned that Elise was sending Stu into Kerrville to buy some necessary equipment to mend a broken windmill and that Stu planned to stretch the trip a few extra days so he could visit his family, Buddy wanted to tag along. The Petty boy was fond of Buddy, and like E.Z., he didn’t have the heart to refuse most anything Buddy asked of him.

Though they were both twenty-four, Stu treated Buddy like a kid brother. Sometimes seeing the pair together broke Elise’s heart. Her brother was by far the best-looking of the two, but he would never know the wonder of young love, which Stu had recently discovered. Her brother was physically superior to Stu, but he would never be able to work the same as he did or hold down any real responsibilities. Buddy’s attention drifted, the same as any child’s. He always had to be watched to ensure against any harm coming to him. Sometimes it seemed so unfair. Yet Buddy was the one constant joy of her life. His cheery disposition and disarming innocence were a precious gift. In her eyes, he was a blessing, and anyone who dared to refer to him as a burden was never fool enough to do it again. Though they’d been separated for a year or so after Buddy’s birth, Elise had been the one who’d mothered and cared for him since he was two and she seven. And she’d done a fine job of it.

Elise could not understand or forgive the mother who had, in her lifetime, deserted two children and two husbands. Shortly after Buddy’s birth and the discovery that the oxygen deprivation he’d suffered during the difficult delivery had left him permanently impaired, Lady Pamela returned to England. She’d naively believed her marriage to a cattle baron would be an endless adventure. She discovered quite the contrary to be true and in short order came to loathe the dull reality and solitariness of ranch life. Her parting note to her husband had been brief and painfully blunt:

Dearest Roe,

I have tried but failed miserably at adapting to this rugged life. Unthinkable and as unnatural as it may be, I know I cannot face the daily reminder of our son’s imperfection. He is better off left in your care. You may communicate with Elise through my mother. I am so sorry to end it this way, but eventually you will come to terms with what I already know. Try not to hate me.

Pamela

Elise had memorized the empty words written to her father when, years later, she’d accidentally found the note secreted away among his personal papers. Her memories of her mother and the time she’d spent at her grandmother’s estate outside Devonshire were vague. All she recalled was that her mother had seldom been around. Lady Pamela quickly escaped the rigidity and boredom of the manor house and rejoined the social set she’d once run with in London. She was too engrossed in the whirlwind of lavish parties and polo matches to be bothered with the child she’d uprooted and placed in the care of stuffy strangers. Her “stint in the wild and woolly West of the American colonies”, as she referred to it, became a source of great entertainment for the wealthy bluebloods she partied with. Lady Pamela was more popular than ever. Since her presence was in demand in London, she was rarely present at the manor house or available to her daughter.

Nightly Elise prayed for her daddy to come to England and whisk her back to the warmth of Texas. Daily she wondered why he hadn’t done so. Only years later did her father admit that he’d been too numb with the pain of his wife’s desertion to act decisively. Then he became consumed with looking after a baby with special needs while at the same time trying to survive a drought that threatened to destroy his ranching operation. He said it didn’t excuse his delay in fetching her back, but explained the why of it. Finally her little-girl prayers were answered. Upon being notified by his former mother-in-law that Pamela had gone off to South Africa to live out yet another romantic escapade with a dashing mining magnate, this time forsaking her firstborn, Roe Winston immediately flew to England to reclaim his daughter. It was the happiest day of her young life.

The ache left in the three Winstons at having been rejected by the beautiful Englishwoman had healed and sealed them as a family unit. Buddy sometimes asked about his mother, but Roe didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. So father and daughter invented a lie to spare him from harsh facts that his gentle nature could not abide. They told him that she had died unexpectedly during a trip to her homeland when he was a year old. Truth was, Lady Pamela Walford-Winston died some twelve years later from ovarian cancer. She’d left husband number two and was supposedly ecstatically happy with number three when time ran out for her. Roe cabled flowers in the children’s names. Elise tried not to think too harshly of her. Buddy turned thirteen the day his mother was buried in the family plot in the east gardens of the Walford estate. Seven years later, Roe Winston suffered a brain aneurysm and was laid to rest under a shady old oak on a part of the ranch known as Blossom Bluff.

One parent Elise hardly remembered. The other she near idolized. Her father’s passing grieved her still. Life went on, but it was harder without Roe Winston’s sage advice and good humor to rely on. She never gazed on the portrait of her mother without remembering his reply the one and only time she’d questioned him about why he’d kept it prominently displayed throughout the years.

“I don’t exactly know why I never took it down. A lot of reasons, I guess. Lookin’ at her brings me pleasure and pain all at once. I suppose it sorta serves as a reminder to me that life don’t always go the way we’d like it to. The only thing we can count on for certain is that it’s bound to go on. No matter what occurred the day before, there’s always going to be a day after. Her leavin’ me like she did didn’t sour me on women. A pretty female still turns my head, as you well know. But after her exit I wasn’t willin’ to risk being made a fool of for a second time. I guess I gaze at that likeness of her the same way a reformed drunk pulls out a sealed bottle of good liquor from time to time, just so he can stare down his weakness. Right or wrong, it’s always had a sobering effect.”

So the portrait of Lady Pamela stayed up even after Roe Winston’s weakness for her had long since been put to rest in one of several graves on Blossom Bluff. It served as a constant reminder to Elise of how fickle and shallow her mother had been. She never wanted to be like her.

Buddy and she had grown even closer after their father’s death. She was the only one left now to look out for her brother’s needs, both material and emotional. Ever since he was a little boy, she’d promised they would always be together. They had the ranch; they had each other. Nothing could ever change that.

“You’re not listenin’ to me, E.Z.” Buddy’s peeved tone recaptured her attention.

“Sure I am,” she fibbed.

She noticed his attire-pajama top, jeans and sneakers-and was about to comment when he spoke up again.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be fun, huh?” He referred to the upcoming barbecue at Palos Altos Ranch.

Her heart sank, but for his sake she pretended to be as thrilled as he was. “Yup, should be quite a party.”

“Did ya get a new dress like ya wanted?”

“Sure did.” The thought of the lavender sundress prompted memories of the shopping trip into San Antonio, which reminded her of the storm and the man she’d rescued.

“Good thing it quit rainin’, huh? Else it woulda spoiled the party.”

Her smile melted away. It was as though Buddy had read her thoughts. Little did he know that the rainstorm of yesterday had already spoiled the party for her.

Buddy became absorbed in studying his right palm. He rubbed his fingers across it repeatedly. Sometimes he became fixed on an action or an object, and it was impossible to tell if he did so because he was intent on it or because he’d lost his train of thought.

Instantly Elise grew alert to his altered focus. Getting out of the swing, she came and sat down beside him, grabbing his hand and taking a look for herself.

“I got a blister,” he complained.

“You got a rope burn,” she fussed. “And a bad one. How many times do I have to tell you about wearing gloves when you work the stock?”

“I forgot,” he said.

“Yeah, well, it’s dangerous not to do as I say, Buddy. Remember what happened to Lefty that time he roped without gloves?”

“I forget.” He stared at her, his eyes blank. He truly had no recollection.

“The rope cut clean through two of his fingers,” she reminded him.

A spark of comprehension flared in his eyes. “He had to go to the hospital and get ‘em sewed back on,” Buddy said.

“And it wouldn’t have happened if he’d been wearing gloves.” She hammered home the point, hoping the mental picture of Lefty’s misfortune would make an impression on Buddy.

He grinned at her. As always, that childlike smile tugged at her heart. “You gonna put a Ninja Turtle band-Aid on it? It’s my favorite.”

She squeezed his fingertips and laughed out of frustration, half amused, half worried that he hadn’t really understood the reason for her lecture. “Sure,” she said.

“But first we’re going to put some salve on that burn.”

Ruffling his flaxen hair, she stood up. Buddy scrambled to his feet, anxious to receive the bandage.

“You need to finish dressing for bed, too.”

“I know. I remembered,” he responded a bit too defensively. “I was gonna take off my jeans. I just wasn’t ready, is all.” He tilted his head, the moonlight illuminating his aristocratic good looks. The royal European bloodlines were plainly evident in him, while she strongly resembled their father, even to the trace of Cheyenne blood mingled in the Winston ancestry.

“Howdy, miss,” A voice greeted from the darkness beyond the porch.

She squinted to make out the man in the moonlight.

“Heya, Willie.” Buddy instantly recognized the Voice.

The stocky figure of Will Butler stepped out of the shadows onto the moonlit walkway. Will had come to Cheyenne Moon straight out of prison-an ex-con looking for work. Though he had a tough demeanor, Elise appreciated his being straightforward about his time behind bars and the reason for it. Willie had a fondness for hard liquor, and when he drank, he became meaner than a polecat. Twice he’d been convicted on assault charges. The first time he’d been put on probation. The second offense involved a baseball bat, which got him a deadly-weapon charge and five years in the state pen. Everyone knew Will had a temper, but he mostly kept it in check. He’d promised to abstain from hard liquor while at Cheyenne Moon, and so far he’d been true to his word.

He’d been with Elise for nearly a year now. Not a hand on the ranch worked harder than Will. Not a man on the place was more appreciative of the lady boss. After all, she’d given him a job and a new lease on life when nobody else would. During the past twelve months, the cowhands had begun to recognize the signs that Will’s gratitude to Miz Winston had developed into a full-fledged crush. All the boys knew it, but not a one of them teased him about it. No one wanted to test Will’s rehabilitation to that extent. So they pretended not to notice his mooning looks and the way he invented excuses just to be around her. Elise only noticed his loyalty and the fact that he was especially good with Buddy. The entire Cheyenne Moon crew kept tabs on her brother, but Willie made an extra effort. So, no matter his shady past, she found herself liking the man.

“I didn’t mean to disturb ya, miss.” He doffed his hat and stood fingering the brim. “I was a bit restless tonight. Thought a walk might settle me down. I, uh, heard y’all talkin’ and just wanted to check on the two of ya,” he said haltingly.

“We’re fine, Will. I was about to turn in. You enjoy the fresh air.” She favored him with a smile before nudging Buddy to follow her inside.

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll sure do that, all right.”

“See ya in the mornin’, Will,” Buddy said. “Gotta go get a Band-Aid. Got a rope burn.” He held up his hand to show him.

“Better let your sister take care of that there burn afore gangrene sets in,” Will teased, moving on toward the bunkhouse.

Buddy sobered. “People die from gangrene, don’t they, E.Z.?” he half whispered, not wanting Will to know such a possibility bothered him.

“He’s joshin’ with you, Buddy,” she reassured him, opening the back door.

Buddy lingered at the threshold, drinking in the starfilled sky. “Wow!” was her only warning before he bolted for the railing, almost knocking her off her feet in the process. “Look, E.Z. A shootin’ star.” He pointed excitedly and instantly began reciting the childhood rhyme she’d taught him.

“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight.”

She came to join him at the railing as the distant star burned itself out against a backdrop of black velvet.

“Wish I may, wish I might.” Buddy chanted.

She concentrated on the brilliant streak and spoke without realizing it. “Feel again what I felt last night.”

“You weren’t supposed to wish aloud,” Buddy scolded. “Now it won’t come true. You jinxed it, E.Z. Besides, your buttin’ in made me mess up my wish.”

She felt foolish. “Sorry. I meant to keep it to myself.”

Buddy wasn’t one to hold a grudge. “It’s okay. There’ll be another.”

“Come on. Let’s doctor that burn.” Elise had more on her mind than bungled wishes.

Not so with Buddy. He stayed behind, his face full of uncertainty, his eyes following her across the porch. “Jinxin’ a wish ain’t good. Maybe we oughtta sit out awhile longer. There might be another shootin’ star. You could wish again and make it all right.”

“You worry too much. It’s no big deal,” she said, scoffing at his concern. “How’d you like a dish of ice cream before bed?” She knew bribery was the best way to budge him.

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