Dear Reader,

This is a special book to me for a number of reasons, not the least of which is that it is my 50th book for Silhouette. My association with Silhouette has been a long and, I trust, mutually satisfying one, but it is my relationship with my readers that keeps me coming back to the keyboard day after day with new stories to tell. Your patronage and input are greatly appreciated. It has been the best of all possible worlds for me, so much so that I simply cannot imagine another more satisfying, and it is you, dearest reader, who makes it possible. I thank God for each and every one of you and the opportunity to continue doing what I so love to do. It is my fervent hope that you will enjoy this story of overcoming grief and disappointment by learning to live and love again. Those of us who have suffered such losses—and haven’t we all?—know that life has a way of pulling us back into the fray even when we feel too wounded to soldier on, but that it is love which makes the battle worthwhile and the victory sweet.

I wish you love, therefore, to see you through whatever dark hour may come, and faith in the joy which must surely follow. Most important, I thank you for picking up this book and thereby becoming no small part of my own ongoing delight. To the editors at Silhouette, most especially to those with whom I have worked closely, I express my deep gratitude for the many years of support and guidance.

God bless,

Dear Reader,

I’m dreaming of summer vacations—of sitting by the beach, dangling my feet in a lake, walking on a mountain or curling up in a hammock. And in each vision, I have a Silhouette Romance novel, and I’m happy. Why don’t you grab a couple and join me? And in each book take a look at our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest!

We’ve got some terrific titles in store for you this month. Longtime favorite author Cathie Linz has developed some delightful stories with U.S. Marine heroes and Stranded with the Sergeant is appealing and fun. Cara Colter has the second of her THE WEDDING LEGACY titles for you. The Heiress Takes a Husband features a rich young woman who’s struggling to prove herself—and the handsome attorney who lends a hand.

Arlene James has written over fifty titles for Silhouette Books, and her expertise shows. So Dear to My Heart is a tender, original story of a woman finding happiness again. And Karen Rose Smith—another popular veteran—brings us Doctor in Demand, about a wounded man who’s healed by the love of a woman and her child.

And two newer authors round out the list! Melissa McClone’s His Band of Gold is an emotional realization of the power of love, and Sue Swift debuts in Silhouette Romance with His Baby, Her Heart, in which a woman agrees to fulfill her late sister’s dream of children. It’s an unusual and powerful story that is part of our THE BABY’S SECRET series.

Enjoy these stories, and make time to appreciate yourselves in your hectic lives! Have a wonderful summer.

Happy reading!

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor

So Dear to My Heart
Arlene James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Books by Arlene James

Silhouette Romance

City Girl #141

No Easy Conquest #235

Two of a Kind #253

A Meeting of Hearts #327

An Obvious Virtue #384

Now or Never #404

Reason Enough #421

The Right Moves #446

Strange Bedfellows #471

The Private Garden #495

The Boy Next Door #518

Under a Desert Sky #559

A Delicate Balance #578

The Discerning Heart #614

Dream of a Lifetime #661

Finally Home #687

A Perfect Gentleman #705

Family Man #728

A Man of His Word #770

Tough Guy #806

Gold Digger #830

Palace City Prince #866

*The Perfect Wedding #962

*An Old-Fashioned Love #968

*A Wife Worth Waiting For #974

Mail-Order Brood #1024

*The Rogue Who Came To Stay #1061

*Most Wanted Dad #1144

Desperately Seeking Daddy #1186

*Falling for a Father of Four #1295

A Bride To Honor #1330

Mr. Right Next Door #1352

Glass Slipper Bride #1379

A Royal Masquerade #1432

In Want of a Wife #1466

The Mesmerizing Mr. Carlyle #1493

So Dear to My Heart #1535

Silhouette Special Edition

A Rumor of Love #664

Husband in the Making #776

With Baby in Mind #869

Child of Her Heart #964

The Knight, the Waitress and the Toddler #1131

Every Cowgirl’s Dream #1195

Marrying an Older Man #1235

Baby Boy Blessed #1285

Her Secret Affair #1421

Silhouette Books

Fortune’s Children

Single with Children

The Fortunes of Texas

Corporate Daddy

Maitland Maternity

The Detective’s Dilemma

ARLENE JAMES

grew up in Oklahoma and has lived all over the South. The author enjoys traveling with her husband, “the most romantic man in the world,” but writing has always been her chief pastime.

Praise for beloved author Arlene James, in recognition of her

MR. RIGHT NEXT DOOR

“Be prepared for more realism and depth than is usually found in a category romance.”

—The Romance Reader

THE PERFECT WEDDING

“Ms. James provides a powerful inspirational message for romance fans.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

DESPERATELY SEEKING DADDY

“Arlene James creates a wonderful heroine with whom readers will identify…”

—Romantic Times Magazine

MARRYING AN OLDER MAN

“I can honestly say that this book fits the gem category.”

—Desert Isle Reviews

“…Ms. James’s complex characters and unhurried pace make this a rewarding reading experience.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

Winston slowed the battered pickup truck as soon as he could read the name on the mailbox wired to a fence post at the side of the paved, two-lane road. The engine chugged as he downshifted, causing the old truck to lurch, and he glanced with mild concern across the cab at the dog hanging out the window, its white-tufted black ears flapping in the breeze. Did the animal know that it was going home? He wouldn’t have put it past the canny black-and-white dog. Perhaps that was why his son had taken such a liking to it.

For some reason the quiet eight-year-old had formed a deep affection for the odd cattle dog in the months since Dorinda Thacker had left it with them while she went for an extended visit with her sister in Texas. None of the other dogs around the Champlain ranch had ever inspired such devotion from Jamesy, but the dog belonged to the Thacker place, and since Dorinda had returned, so must the mutt. Out here on the sparsely populated Wyoming plains, a good dog was highly valued as useful for working cattle, companionship, keeping wild critters away from the home place, sounding alarms and, in the case of this particular pooch, going for help at a spoken command. Anyone living alone in these parts definitely needed a dog. It was just a shame, for Jamesy’s sake, that in Dorinda Thacker’s case it had to be this dog.

At least, Winston mused, he could get his stolen cattle back now, not that he had any intention of serving her with the restitution order immediately. After what her ex-husband Bud had put her through—the loss of her savings, the embarrassment of his thieving, the trial and conviction and, of course, the divorce—the woman deserved a chance to get her feet under her before she got hit with the loss of forty head of her cattle. It seemed unfair in a way that she should have to make the restitution, but that was how the court ordered it at the behest of the insurance company. They’d expected her back a couple months ago, in the late spring. It was full summer now, and Dorinda had notified no one, not even the Summerses who were still taking care of her horses, of the reason for her delay. Nevertheless, Win figured that he’d waited this long for his cattle; he could wait awhile yet. The dog was another matter.

With the truck sufficiently slowed, Winston turned it off the paved road onto the narrow dirt track that wound through the small hillocks and shallow rises which provided the Thacker cabin with some shelter from the elements. Win admitted to himself that he felt a little uneasy. Dorinda had often made him uncomfortable. Owing to his personal experience, Win had a little problem with married women who pursued men other than their husbands. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Dorinda. Not even all that Bud had put her through during their short marriage had dimmed her sunny disposition and happy-go-lucky attitude. Plus, she was a very attractive woman. When it came right down to it, however, he wasn’t at all sure that he could ever trust her.

As he guided the truck along the snaky path toward the cabin, he pictured her in his mind. Of medium height, with neat, graceful curves, Dorinda had big brown eyes, a heart-shaped face and a wealth of long, dark hair. She wore a touch too much makeup for his taste and, in his opinion, bought her jeans at least a size too small, but her smile was often so bright that it obscured everything else. He wished, heartily, that she had not made her interest in him so very obvious before Bud had been arrested. Perhaps all that had happened and the months away had changed her. He hoped so. Six years was a long time for a man to be alone, and lately he’d been feeling it more acutely than ever before, which was why he’d been out driving alone late last night and had spotted the light in Dorinda’s window. He’d tried to call this morning, but the phone had not been reconnected, so he’d decided to drive over instead.

The small, weather-grayed house came into view. Perched as it was halfway up the gentle rise of the shallow hill behind it, the cabin boasted very little front yard, and Dorinda’s flashy red truck took up what was there, so Win circled around and parked at the end of the narrow porch. After he killed the engine, he reached across to ruffle the ears of the black-and-white collie, which looked at him with inscrutable black eyes rimmed with a narrow, caramel brown mask resembling a pair of lopsided spectacles.

“You’re home, old son. We’ll miss you back at The Champ, but Dorinda needs you here. You take care of her now.”

The dog yawned widely, as if to say that he knew his business well and needed no reminders from some scruffy cowboy. Winston chuckled and reached into his shirt pocket for a short, splintered stick, which the dog nipped carefully from his fingertips, white-feathered black tail wagging happily. Win let himself out of the truck and waited for the dog to leap down to the ground before walking around his truck and between Dorinda’s and the porch to the narrow, sagging center steps, the dog at his heels.

As Winston drew close he could see through the screen and the open door to the kitchen beyond. Empty. The dog dropped down onto its belly on the porch and began gnawing the stick, which it held upright between its front paws. Rapping his knuckles on the door frame, Win called out, “Hello! Winston Champlain here.”

For a moment, he heard nothing in response. Then tentative footsteps came from the direction of the living area. Immediately, the dog began to growl, much to Winston’s confusion. A shadowy form appeared, accompanied by a soft, rusty female voice.

“What do you want?”

At that, the dog shot up to its feet and began barking. Perplexed and surprised by the animal’s reaction, Win commanded sharply, “Down!” The animal obeyed, but reluctantly, dropping onto its haunches and quieting to a whine. Win pulled the screen door open so they could see one another better, propping one shoulder against it. “Hey, there.”

Further comment evaporated as he stared at the woman standing before him. She was thinner than before, her long T-shirt bagging unexpectedly around her slender frame and revealing long, delectable legs. An utter lack of cosmetics revealed a pretty face more delicate and vulnerable than he remembered, but the most surprising element of her appearance was the short hair. The long, heavy fall of brown-black had been transformed into a wispy cap that seemed to enlarge her warm brown eyes and call attention to the plumpness of her dusky pink mouth and the graceful length of her neck.

Win realized that his mouth was hanging open only when he used it to exclaim, “Wow!” Her brows beetled at that, and she folded her arms. Win shook away his speechlessness and found a compliment. “I—I mean, I really like your hair, Dorinda.”

A soft gasp was his only warning before she stepped back, reached out and slammed the door, literally, in his face.

A full minute passed before he could grasp the reality of what had happened. Even then, it made no sense. Unless she meant to fight the restitution order. Suddenly, his blood boiled.

He’d been darn patient about this. Everyone from whom Bud had stolen got their cattle back but him, and he’d be skinned for a polecat before he swallowed the loss of forty producing heifers. He felt bad for her, but the law said that Dorinda, who had received the ranch and the Thacker herd in her divorce settlement, was responsible for reimbursing him. Bud couldn’t very well come up with either cattle or their cash equivalent from a prison cell, and he had testified that the proceeds of his thieving had been put back into the place he’d inherited from his uncle, so that left Dorinda on the hook.

Winston turned on his heel and stomped across the porch and down the steps. The dog followed, and Win was of no mind to discourage it. He yanked open the cab door of the truck and waited for the dog to climb up inside. Muttering under his breath about capricious women, he got in and started the engine. The dog whined as Win backed the truck away from the house. The sound had a quality about it with which Win could readily identify.

“I know what you mean, boy, but she hasn’t heard the last of us, not by a long shot.”

Danica lifted her head from the kitchen table. A dull ache bulged deep within her ears, and her eyes were swollen, a condition with which she was too often plagued since the death of her beloved sister. Even now, some two months after the fact, she couldn’t quite believe that Dorinda was gone. The entire past year and a half had been one catastrophe after another.

First Dori had met Bud and, despite Danica’s misgivings, married him after a whirlwind courtship. Then the newlyweds had moved to Wyoming, leaving Danica to struggle alone with the full rent of an apartment that had been meant for two. As if to add insult to injury, the pediatrician for whom Danica worked as a nurse had taken for a partner none other than Danica’s philandering ex-husband, Michael. Over the following months, Michael had attempted to reignite their relationship, Bud had been caught rustling cattle and was sentenced to prison, Dori had gotten a divorce and returned home to Texas to decide what to do next. And finally had come the awful accident that had cost Dorinda her life.

Danica told herself that a lesser woman would have buckled under all the strain, but she knew that she was holding on by her fingernails. Her reaction to Winston Champlain’s unexpected appearance today was proof of that. And yet, the reaction was somewhat justifiable, wasn’t it?

For weeks and weeks after returning home, Dori had alternately complained about her ex-husband and rhapsodized about their nearest neighbor, Winston Champlain. She’d waffled between returning to the entertainments and sophistication of Dallas for good and the supposed joys of actually owning her own ranch in Wyoming, however remote. Even after her normally ebullient spirits and natural penchant for fun had reasserted themselves, she had troubled Danica by measuring every man she met by the growing enticements of Champlain. Finally she had confessed to a “special relationship” with the man. Thoroughly alarmed, Dani had begged Dori to sell the ranch and stay with her in Dallas.

At length, Dorinda had agreed. Danica had arranged to take a few days off to accompany her sister back to Wyoming to settle her business affairs and put the ranch on the market. They were in the vicinity of Tucumcari, New Mexico, driving Danica’s small coupe in order to save on gasoline, when Dorinda had cut in front of a tractor-trailer rig only to find the traffic in front of them braking to avoid a garbage bag tumbling across the six-lane highway in a stiff breeze. The resulting crash had given Danica nightmares for weeks. The worst of it, however, had been waking up in the hospital with a smashing headache but hardly a scratch otherwise to find that the person dearest to her in all the world was no longer a part of it.

The weeks following had been unbearable. Danica had emerged from the initial fog of grief in a confused state of mind. She’d found it difficult to concentrate on work or much of anything, really. The well-meaning condolences and advice of friends and coworkers had been especially difficult to take, and Dani had found herself reacting with surprising anger. Just two weeks after returning to her job, she’d taken a leave of absence and retreated to the relative privacy of her apartment, only to find that her self-appointed caretakers were even more determined to pull her back into everyday life than she’d realized.

Finally, in sheer desperation, she’d packed a suitcase and headed for Wyoming in Dori’s gas-guzzling truck, ostensibly to settle whatever unfinished business remained and put the place on the market. She’d taken some ridiculous chances, she realized now, by driving straight through, and the week or more that she’d been here, she’d done little but sleep and stare out across the treeless plains, never seeing another soul until Winston Champlain, of all people, had arrived at her door.

The irony of it was not lost on Danica. Here she was right where she’d begged her sister not to go, and the first person she sees is the very one she least wants to. Now that she was over the shock of it, she was rather surprised to find that Dorinda had not exaggerated his physical appeal. Standing at least three inches over six feet, he had that kind of lean, rangy strength about him that many athletes possessed. His hair—though mostly hidden by a dusty gray felt hat with a wide, curly brim and high, domed crown—was a light, biscuit brown and fanned out in undisciplined flips from the nape of his neck. Slightly darker brows slashed straight across his face in two short dashes above light, smoke-gray eyes of startling clarity. It was a strong face, strong enough to carry a square, slightly cleft chin, prominent cheekbones and a long, slender nose that had obviously been broken at least once above a wide, spare mouth.

No wonder Dori had allowed herself to become entangled with him. How easy it must have been for him to slip beneath her defenses after the deep disappointment of her marriage to Bud, and now, clearly, he was ready to resume the affair. Obviously, she should have told him about Dorinda, but she’d been so shocked to see him standing there just as Dori had described him that she’d been tongue-tied. Then to hear her sister’s name on his lips, with a compliment, no less, had been more than Danica could bear. She’d slammed the door in his face and dissolved in tears.

How long ago that might have been, she didn’t really know, but a hollowness in her middle reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day. She put her head in her hands and contemplated the necessity of it, dredging up the will to rise from her chair and go to the pantry. Fortunately, since the refrigerator didn’t work, the larder was well-stocked with nonperishable foodstuffs. Unfortunately, with neither microwave nor functioning cookstove, she was reduced to eating her irregular meals cold right out of the can, box or bag. At least she had electricity and, therefore, hot water, though why that had not been shut off she had no idea.

Forcing herself to her feet, she went to the pantry and selected a can at random, carried it to the counter and opened it. Corn. She hated canned corn. Fresh or even frozen was much better, in her opinion. With a sigh she picked up the spoon left on the counter after her last meal and carried it to the table along with the can. She got down three bites before a pounding at her door made her start so violently that she turned over the can, spilling the contents across the table top.

“I want to talk to you!”

Him! An uncontrollable anger seized her. How dare he intrude like this again! She balled up both fists and shouted at the door, “Go away!”

“Fat chance, lady! You can’t just brush this off!”

“Go away!” she cried again, but somewhat feebly, her energy quickly waning. She looked at the spilled corn and felt close to tears once more. Just then the door, which she had neglected to lock, opened and Winston Champlain strode through it, waving a folded, blue-backed paper.

“Look,” he said sharply, “I wanted to do this easy after all you’ve been through, but by golly, one way or another, I mean to have my cattle!” He shook the paper out and thrust it in her face, adding, “You’re served! Now what the hell are you gonna do about it?”

Served? Danica stared openmouthed at the paper held to the end of her nose, but her eyes crossed when she tried to bring the words into focus. Irritably, she pushed it away.

“You’re not welcome here, Champlain, so go away.”

“Well, that’s just fine!” he snapped. “First Bud and now you. I guess you’re as much thief as him.”

“I am not!”

“Yeah, well, what do you call it? I’m out forty producing heifers, and the court says you’re the one who has to reimburse me for them!”

Forty heifers? Holy cow, her dad had never owned so many at one time. Of course, cattle had just been a sideline with him. His cotton crop had been his main concern back then. “Where on earth would I get forty heifers?” she demanded.

“Out of your herd, presumably.”

“My herd?” Oh. Of course. She hadn’t thought of that. As her sister’s only surviving relative, the ranch and the cattle would be hers now. “I don’t even know if I have forty heifers.”

“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” With a sharp flick of his wrist, he swirled the paper at her. She caught it in midair, crumpling one side in her fist, and turned it right side up. It was, indeed, a restitution order from the circuit court. “Read it and weep, Dorinda,” he said snidely.

She sighed and lifted her wrist to her forehead. “I’m not Dorinda.”

He literally snorted. “Huh! You don’t expect me to believe that.”

She stared at him, suddenly fatigued again, tears filling her eyes as she searched for the words. “Dorinda is…There was a-an a-accident.” She carried the paper to the counter and carefully laid it there, one hand going to her hip, the other to her chest. “I—I didn’t know about this. I would’ve t-told someone if I had.”

“Told someone?” he echoed uncertainly.

“About Dori,” she whispered, holding onto the ragged tail of her composure by a mere thread. “It was only t-two months ago. In Tucumcari. O-on our way h-here.”

“An accident,” he said stupidly.

She pulled a deep breath, blinked and nodded. “I’m her sister, Danica. Danica Lynch.”

He tilted his head, staring at her, and finally concluded, “Her twin sister.”

“Yes.”

“And Dorinda was in an accident.”

“That’s right.”

Concern and regret creased his features. Reaching up, he removed his hat, as if just then remembering his manners. He cleared his throat. “How is she? Where is she?”

Dani tried to tell him and couldn’t. The effort sent fresh tears rolling down her face. Finally, he understood what she couldn’t say; she saw it in his eyes the instant before he blurted, “Oh, my God, she’s dead!”

That awful, final word again. Dead. It pierced her through with such force that it doubled her over. The next thing she knew, she was cradled against a solid chest, long, strong arms wrapped around her.

“Merciful heaven, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Oh, man, I came busting in here like a crazy man, accusing you of trying to cheat me when you didn’t even know what I was talking about! And all the time your sister…” He tightened his embrace and dropped his voice. “I am so sorry. Poor Dorinda!”

Being held like this felt as comfortable as a warm blanket on a cold day. Danica closed her eyes, imbued with a sense of safety and indulgence. For the first time she considered that, eventually, it might be okay, after all.

“I should’ve told you earlier,” she admitted, breathing through her mouth as tears clogged her nose. “I was just so shocked when you called me by her name.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he apologized sincerely, “but you’ve got to admit that you look an awful lot alike.”

She managed a doleful nod. “We’re identical, except for the hair, but you obviously had no way of knowing that.”

His big hand stroked the back of her head, and he whispered, “I do like your hair. Very much. That was no mistake, at least.”

A thrill of pleasure shot through her. She lifted her head to thank him for the compliment, looked up into his rugged face, saw the flare of awareness that warmed his cool gray eyes—and abruptly realized what she was doing and with whom! Jerking back, she broke the embrace. “I, uh, that is…”

His brow beetled with obvious concern, and he reached out a hand to her. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, uh, I’m not feeling very well.”

“Maybe you ought to—”

“It’s just a headache,” she interrupted. “It’ll be fine.”

Nodding, he glanced around the room. His gaze settled, and he frowned. She followed his line of sight and lifted one hand to hide her smile. His hat lay right in the middle of her spilled corn. Obviously he had discarded it rather hastily earlier. Remembering why, she cleared her throat and glanced away as he gingerly retrieved the hat and brushed at the stains.

“Listen, I oughta be going,” he said. “We’ll work out the restitution thing later. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

“Uh, no, thank you. I don’t need a thing,” she refused firmly, wanting only to get rid of him now.

“If you do, don’t hesitate to ask,” he told her. “My folks were fond of Dorinda. They’re going to be real shocked and saddened by this. I know they’ll want to do something, especially Mom.” He glanced around again, adding, “Maybe you’d like her to come over and help you straighten the place up?”

Danica looked around her, realizing for the first time that she’d let things get out of hand since she’d been here. Garbage spilled out of a full container. The mess on the table was spreading. Utensils and tin can lids littered the kitchen counter. Articles of discarded clothing lay strewn about the tiny living area, including, to her extreme embarrassment, one of her bras!

Coloring violently, she put her hand to her head, hoping to anchor his attention there, and said weakly, “That’s very kind, but I’ll take care of it as soon as I get rid of this headache.”

“Do you have something to take for that?” he asked, voice heavy with concern.

“Of course, I do. I’m a nurse, after all.”

“Are you? That’s good.”

“The thing is,” she lied, “it’s going to make me sleepy, so if you don’t mind…”

“Oh. Right.” He put on the hat and turned for the door, saying, “I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

“No, don’t bother,” she said quickly. “I’m fine, really.”

“No bother,” he assured her, smiling warmly as he opened the door and slipped through it. “That’s what neighbors are for.”

Neighbors. Danica closed her eyes and bowed her head as the door closed behind him. Something told her that as a neighbor Winston Champlain was going to be as much a problem for her as for her sister. But in another way, of course. She certainly was in no danger of becoming enamored of the man. She knew his kind far too well for that.

Dismayed by the lack of reassurance brought by that thought, Danica turned her attention back to the small, L-shaped, living and kitchen area. Why hadn’t she realized how cluttered the place had become? The answer to that was obvious. Disgusted with herself, she straightened her spine and dashed away the last of her tears with the back of one hand.

“All right, Danica,” she told herself aloud. “Time to get a grip. You need order and exercise. No more lying around the house twenty-four hours a day. No more being a slob. No more maudlin self-indulgence.” And no more being charmed by the likes of Winston Champlain, she added silently.

She’d learned her lesson with charming men the hard way, and if that wasn’t enough, she had Dorinda’s experience to consider, as well. True, unlike Bud Thacker, Michael had never stolen so much as a tongue depressor, so far as Danica knew, and he was a fine physician. That didn’t change the fact that he had professed love to the devoted little wife at home, namely her, then carried on with half the nurses in Dallas as easily as he dispensed pills and treats to the children who came through his examining room, while remaining one of the more likable men she’d ever known.

Winston Champlain was every bit as attractive, charming and likable as Michael—when he wasn’t shouting. If he somehow seemed…stronger, as well, that hardly signified. The man had been involved with her sister. He’d taken advantage of Dorinda’s abysmal experience in her marriage and used her own vulnerability against her.

Danica frowned. Funny, he hadn’t behaved quite like a man who had just lost the woman with whom he was romantically involved. No doubt it had been very casual as far as he was concerned. Obviously Dorinda had been much more emotionally involved. Wasn’t the woman always more engaged emotionally? Well, not her. She didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t care a fig for the likes of Winston Champlain—no matter how good-looking he was or how wonderful he smelled, a unique combination of leather, smoke, mint and something she couldn’t quite define. No, it didn’t matter how safe she’d felt snuggled there against his chest, she knew what she knew, and that was the end of it.

Snatching up a dish towel, she went to the sink and moistened it before beginning to scoop the corn back into the can.

Chapter Two

“It’s okay, boy,” Jamesy told the dog, patting the sleek black head between the ears. “I’ll come see you real soon, I promise.”

Win sighed mentally. He’d had no luck getting off without the boy this morning, but once he’d explained that Dorinda’s sister had taken up residence at the Thacker place, Jamesy had known that the dog must go home. When he had bravely offered to tell “Miss Lynch” what the old dog “liked best to keep happy,” Winston had known that he couldn’t leave the child behind. It would have been easier to do this alone, but he felt that he had to honor his son’s generosity and courage by taking him along. After all, since Jamesy could walk and talk, Win had tried to teach the boy the importance of doing the right thing. Now he had to let him actually go through with it. He only hoped that Danica appreciated the boy’s effort.

They rounded the final bend in the narrow dirt road and pulled up in the same spot where Win had previously parked. Jamesy looked up, tilting his head far back in order to see past the wide, curled brim of his stained hat. Once off-white but now a mottled gray/tan, the hat was and always had been too big for the boy. The tall, round, felt crown had been spotted by an unexpected rain a few years earlier. Such heavy rainfall was so much a rarity in these dry plains that Jamesy had since worn the stains as a kind of badge of honor. Blowing dust, honest perspiration, falling snow and the occasional beverage gone awry had done the rest, but Jamesy had rejected all replacements. Win always thought the stained, too-big hat gave the boy a pathetic air. His sadness over the dog only added to it.

“Don’t worry, son. Everything will be fine.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Jamesy promised, determination not quite covering the waver in his voice. “Twig and me’ve talked it over, and way we see it, nothing much is changing. We can still be special friends even if we ain’t at the same place no more.”

“Aren’t,” Winston corrected automatically. Then he smiled and clamped a hand onto the boy’s thin shoulder, saying, “Have I told you lately how proud I am of you?”

Jamesy just gave him a watery smile and shook his head, glancing down at the dog again. Knowing that he could say nothing to make it better, Win opened the door and got out. Jamesy followed his lead, getting out on the other side of the truck. The dog dropped down onto the ground beside him, and together they waited until Win came around and joined them. They walked single file alongside Dorinda’s, rather, Danica’s truck and up onto the porch, where Winston wagged a finger at the dog.

“No more of that barking, now.”

With that Jamesy dropped down onto his haunches and wrapped both arms around the dog, obviously intending to quell any outburst. Winston knocked and waited for the door to open. When she didn’t immediately answer, he wondered if they’d come too early. It was going on half past eight, but Danica might be a late sleeper. He’d have called and set up a convenient time if the phone was working. As it was, he just had to take his chances. Finally, the inner door swung back.

“Oh,” she said through the screen. “I guess you want to talk about the restitution order. I did read it last night.”

“Actually, I, that is, my boy Jamesy and I brought your dog back.”

“Dog?” she echoed, frowning. “What dog?”

“This dog,” Winston explained, pointing downward. Finally she opened the screen and stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing sweats and socks, and from the way she went to smoothing her frazzled hair, he suspected that she’d slept in them.

“I don’t know this dog,” she said.

“This here’s Twig,” Jamesy told her, ruffling the dog’s black-and-white fur. “He’s a real good ’un.” As he spoke, the dog laved his face with its pale pink tongue.

“Okay,” Danica said uncertainly, “but he’s not my dog.”

“He belongs to the place,” Winston explained. “Old Ned, Bud’s uncle, used to train the best working dogs in this whole area. He raised Twig from a pup and trained him special. When your sister left here, she asked us to take care of him.”

“Well, then take care of him,” Danica said, watching the dog flop over so Jamesy could vigorously rub his belly. “It has nothing to do with me.”

“But he belongs to the place,” Winston pointed out again. “That means he’s yours.”

“I don’t want him,” she retorted. “You keep him.”

“Oh, boy!” Jamesy exclaimed. “Did you hear that, Twig?”

Winston frowned, wondering how this had gotten so complicated. “Listen,” he said to her, “you don’t understand. The dog belongs to you.”

“But I don’t want him, and the boy obviously does,” she pointed out.

“Can I keep him then, Dad?”

Winston sighed, exasperated. “No, you can’t keep him, son. Miss Lynch doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“The hell I don’t! Why would I want to be bothered with some mutt?”

“I told you,” Winston said through his teeth, patience wearing awfully thin. “He’s a highly trained, valuable, working dog, and he comes with the place to you.”

She folded her arms. “Well, I’m not keeping him, so just take him back where you brought him from.”

Win threw up his hands. “I can’t do that. You don’t even have the telephone working yet.”

“And I don’t intend to,” she told him smartly. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“For Pete’s sake, woman, will you just listen to reason for a minute?” he erupted hotly.

“Oh, so now I’m unreasonable, am I?” She parked her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Well, if that’s the way you’re going to behave, I’ll thank you to take your stupid dog and get off my land.”

“He’s not my dog!” Winston roared.

“And he’s not stupid,” Jamesy added defensively. Winston looked down, ashamed and embarrassed that he’d shouted at a grieving woman in front of his son. Even the dog was staring at the two of them, its head tilted to one side.

Danica had the grace to look chagrined. “I’m sure he’s not,” she told Jamesy in a kinder, if stern tone, “but I don’t want to take care of a dog.”

“He don’t take much caring for, miss,” Jamesy told her.

“I don’t even know how long I’ll be here,” Danica protested impatiently. “He’ll be better off with you.”

“But you need a dog,” Winston reasoned.

Her pointed little chin came up at an obstinate angle. “Don’t try to tell me what I need! How would you know what I need?”

His temper slipped free. “Lady, you absolutely take the cake! You won’t listen to plain sense!”

She threw a finger at his pickup truck. “Get off my land!”

“Of all the hardheaded, idiotic women!”

“Take your kid and his dog and go!” she shouted. Jamesy lurched to his feet then, catching Danica’s attention. “What are you waiting for?” she demanded of the boy. “Get out of here!”

Jamesy took off at a run, stomping down the porch steps in his heavy boots. Twig whined, looked at Danica, then went after the boy. Winston was mad enough to spit nails into an iron bar, but before he could say anything else to her, she stepped inside and slammed the door again. He considered pushing his way in and making her see reason, but Jamesy’s presence restrained him.

Reluctantly, he turned away and followed Jamesy to the truck, his concern for her reckless behavior beginning to push away his anger. Someone needed to have a stern talk with that woman, and he reckoned it would have to be him. He didn’t much like the notion, but she had to see how foolish it would be for her stay out here all on her own without a dog. Didn’t she realize that it was a thirty-five-minute drive to his place, and that he and his family were her closest neighbors? What if something happened to her? Maybe the dog would do her no good, but at least the chance existed if the dog was around.

Win settled behind the steering wheel and looked over at his son. Twig was sitting in Jamesy’s lap, its nose stuck to the window. This was getting to be a habit, dragging that old collie over here and then dragging it back again. Winston lifted off his hat and plowed a hand through his thick, wavy hair.

“What’s wrong with her, Dad?” Jamesy asked suddenly. “Is it because of me? Don’t she like kids?”

Winston sighed. He hadn’t wanted to explain the full situation to his son, but that seemed the best thing now. It was bad enough when a boy’s mother walked away without a backward glance; it was beyond standing for when a rude neighbor made him feel disliked and responsible for problems with which he had nothing to do.

“It’s not you, son, not at all. Miss Lynch, she’s going through some hard times now. You saw how much she looks like Mrs. Thacker who used to own this place?”

“A whole bunch,” Jamesy agreed.

“That’s because Mrs. Thacker and Miss Lynch are twins. Or they were. That’s the problem, son. I don’t like to tell you this, but Miss Lynch’s sister was in an accident a couple months ago, and Miss Lynch is still feeling the loss real bad.”

The boy’s eyes had grown large as Winston spoke. “You mean that Mrs. Thacker got killed?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Jamesy pushed his hat back as he pondered that awful truth. “Man,” he said, “that stinks.”

Winston’s eyebrows rose slightly at the phrasing. “You’re absolutely right.”

Jamesy patted the dog’s rump absently. “Maybe Miss Lynch just don’t want to get to like old Twig, you know, in case he goes off or the coyotes get him or something.”

Winston stared at his son’s small earnest face, a certain pride swelling in him. “You may be right about that, too, son.”

Jamesy sighed and, with the pragmatism of a child for whom things had pretty much worked out as he’d hoped, said, “If she don’t want him, though, I guess there’s nothing anybody can do, huh?”

“I guess not,” Winston murmured, reaching for the keys he’d left hanging in the ignition. He wouldn’t have bet, however, that the matter was resolved, and when he woke the next morning to see his son’s worried face hovering over him, he knew it for a fact.

“Well, at least you’re not a picky eater,” Danica said to the dog slurping down a can of beef and vegetable soup from a bowl on the kitchen floor. The mutt had shown up in the middle of the night, whining and scratching at her door, a stick of some sort in its mouth. She’d tried to send it home, but when she’d opened the screen to shoo it off her porch, it had dashed inside and made a beeline for the rug in front of the old gas stove tucked into the corner of the living room, where it promptly began chewing up the stick. She’d let it stay the night since it had been too late to try to take it back to the boy where it belonged, but she still intended to do that, even if she had found an odd comfort in the animal’s silent companionship.

With no television, Danica had begun to find the evenings rather long of late. The day before she had discovered a stack of country and western music tapes in a box behind the sofa. That had sent her on a search for something with which to play them and led her to a cache of paperback novels and magazines beneath the bed and an old boom box in the bedroom closet. Danica was delighted, and the evening that followed was the most pleasant she’d experienced in some time. Nevertheless, listening to music and reading had proven more satisfying somehow with that mutt lying there on the rug.

Still, no matter how determined the Champlains might be to argue, she wouldn’t be responsible for parting a child from his pet. Their behavior frankly puzzled her. She couldn’t imagine a father who wouldn’t be delighted with that determination on her part, but then she had never imagined a man like Winston Champlain.

The dog licked the plate clean and sat back on its haunches, as if to ask, “Now what?”

“Now we get you home,” Danica said aloud, rising to her feet and slinging the strap of her hand bag over one shoulder. “Come on.”

She wasn’t exactly certain in which direction the Champlain ranch lay, but given that the road only ran in two directions with no intersections for miles and miles, it couldn’t be too difficult to find. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have plenty of time to look. They didn’t make it off the porch before Winston Champlain’s old truck slewed into view, however. Danica leaned a shoulder against the support post of the porch roof and waited, arms folded, while he parked, got out and walked around to the bottom of the steps.

“I figured the dog had come here,” he said.

Danica looked down at the dog sitting beside her, determined to remain aloof and unaffected, despite the sudden leap of her pulse. “He showed up late last night.”

“When we found him gone this morning, I told everyone that Twig had just gone home, but Jamesy was worried, so I figured I’d better check it out.” He leaned down and patted the dog’s head, saying, “You know what you’re doing, don’t you, Twig?”

“Appropriate name,” Danica commented. “He had a stick in his mouth when he showed up last night.”

“Yeah, nothing he likes better than a piece of wood to chew on,” Winston told her, straightening. “I figure his insides are full of splinters by now. It’s sort of a mystery where he gets them, but he always seems to have one about four inches long around somewhere.”

Suddenly the dog went up onto all fours and bristled, growling low in its throat. “What is it, boy?” Winston asked.

Danica followed its line of sight to the horizon, shading her eyes with one hand. “Is that a coyote?”

“Looks like it. They’re pretty bold when there’s no known opposition.” The dog barked, and the coyote loped away over the rise. Winston pushed back his hat and braced one foot on the bottom step. “That’s one reason a dog like Twig is handy to have around.”

“So I see. All the more reason you should keep him. I was just bringing him back to you, by the way.”

Winston shook his head. “Let me tell you about this dog,” he said, parking his hands at his hips. “He’s probably the best working cow dog in the business, but that’s just part of it. He’s trained for any number of things, protection, guarding, barking an alarm. He’ll even go for help if you tell him to. Once, on a cold winter day Ned’s horse fell with him, broke its leg, and Ned couldn’t get free. Ned sent Twig for help. Saved his life, no doubt about it. Another time, Ned, who was getting on up in years, slipped getting out of the tub and knocked himself unconscious. Don’t guess we’ll ever know how Twig got out of the house. Ned was up and nursing a goose egg by the time we got here, but it could’ve gone the other way. When Ned passed—went real peaceful in his sleep—Twig came, then, too.”

“Wow,” Danica said, looking down at the dog with new respect. “You’re a regular Lassie, aren’t you, fella? And I guess the boy is your Timmy.”

“Actually,” Winston said, “that would be you. The dog belongs here.”

She looked him in the eye and said flatly, “It belongs with the boy.”

Cool gray eyes assessed then pulled back from hers. “Looks to me like Twig has something to say about that. Voted with his feet, apparently, and it seems you’re elected.”

She frowned. “But I saw how fond your son is of him.”

“His name’s Jamesy.”

“Jamesy,” she repeated impatiently, “fine. You tell Jamesy that Twig belongs with him now.”

Winston Champlain shook his head again, wagging it decisively from side to side. “I’d say Twig has other ideas.”

She looked down at the dog, sighed and bit her lip. “I couldn’t live with myself, knowing how the, er, Jamesy would miss him.”

“Is that why you threw us off the place yesterday?” he asked softly.

She couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his gaze. “You wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Now if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

He had a way of being right, blast him. “I just didn’t want to fight about it, okay?”

“You didn’t have to be rude.”

“I wasn’t—” She broke off, knowing that he was right again and confessed, “You made me mad.”

“Yeah, well, that was no reason to talk to the boy the way you did.”

Her surprised gaze popped up to his face before she could prevent it. “I wasn’t angry with him! Anything, ah, heated that I might have said was aimed at you.”

“I know that,” he admitted, “but Jamesy’s kind of sensitive.”

“Really,” she quipped drolly, “and he’s your son?”

His mouth thinned into a flat line. “That wasn’t funny.”

Her eyebrows jumped. Apparently she’d hit a tender spot for which she hadn’t really aimed. “Sorry.”

“The fact is,” Winston Champlain told her angrily, ignoring her muttered apology, “he looks exactly like me, in case you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed,” she said softly, but he wasn’t satisfied with that.

“Jamesy couldn’t be anyone else’s,” Winston insisted, “no matter how his mother behaved after he was born.”

Danica winced. Oh, boy, had she put her foot in it. “I only meant to imply that you aren’t very sensitive yourself,” she told him sheepishly. It wasn’t at all true, she admitted silently, his current reaction a case in point.

“It’s bad enough that she abandoned us for the party life,” he went on heatedly, “without you making him think you don’t like him, too.”

She blanched, truly ashamed now. “Oh, gosh, he didn’t really think that, did he?”

“That’s exactly what he thought! He’s a kid, and a kid whose own mom didn’t think enough of him to stick around.”

She moaned, eyes squeezed shut. “Me and my big mouth! I don’t know what’s wrong with me anymore. I have no patience. My fuse is so short! I just didn’t want to take the boy’s dog, and you wouldn’t accept that, so I lost it. I certainly never meant to make him think that I didn’t like him.”

Winston folded his arms and heaped on the coals. “You did more than that, frankly. You didn’t appreciate the sacrifice he was making in order to do the right thing. Yes, he’s fond of the dog, but he realizes that it belongs here. What’s more, Jamesy’s got sense enough to know that you need that dog, even if you don’t.”

She had her own opinion about that, but she wasn’t going to argue about it now. It didn’t matter at this point that she wasn’t going to get caught under a fallen horse or slip getting out of the bathtub. As unfair as it seemed, she’d survived a horrendous car crash; she couldn’t believe anything worse could happen to her. That, however, was not the issue.

“What can I do?” she asked simply, and he told her.

“Just let me tell Jamesy that he can come visit Twig occasionally.”

“That’s it?”

“You were maybe thinking of adopting him?”

She rolled her eyes, but the truth was that she wouldn’t be leaving herself open to much more interaction with Winston Champlain if she did adopt his son. He wasn’t really giving her any options, however, and she couldn’t seem to find any for herself.

Sighing inwardly, she nodded and said, “Tell Jamesy for me that he’s welcome any time, that I wasn’t shouting at him yesterday, and that I’m looking forward to getting to know him. And tell him that I’ll take good care of Twig.”

Winston Champlain shoved his hat farther back on his head and sent her a lazy, approving smile with just enough smugness in it to make her want to hit him. Problem was, he had a right to that smile.

“If it helps, I figure you have good reason to be mad at the world right now,” he said.

She grimaced and held up both hands defensively. “We aren’t going to grief counseling now, are we, because I’ve got to warn you, I am not up for it.”

He looked down, rubbing his chin. “No fear there, but we could talk about that restitution order.”

She looked away, pondering what to say. The truth was that she’d had about all of Winston Champlain that she could take for the moment. He had the most infuriating way of being right about too much, and in her current state of mind, one slip of the tongue, his, and she would be shouting. She’d prefer to avoid that embarrassment.

“Uh, this isn’t the best time, actually,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t press for an explanation. “Why don’t we make an appointment for, oh, day after tomorrow?”

He rubbed his chin. “It would have to be that evening.”

Relieved, she agreed immediately. “Sure. Evening’s fine.”

“Say about seven?”

“Seven’s good.”

His smile beamed pure pleasure this time. “Okay,” he said, resettling his hat. “See you then.” He leaned forward and ruffled the dog’s ear, saying, “You take care of her now, Twig.”

The dog snuffled, then yelped in delight when Winston took a short stick from his shirt pocket. Danica marveled at how cleanly the dog nipped it from the cowboy’s long, lean fingers. It immediately dropped down onto its belly then and began gnawing.

Winston chuckled, flipped her a wave and walked back to his truck. A few moments later, he and the truck disappeared around the same curve from which they had appeared.

Danica sat down on the step next to the dog. “Well, I tried, but I guess we’re a team, after all,” she told it, “for now.” The dog glanced up at her, then went back to gnawing the stick. “I’d better see what I can scare up to feed you until I can find a store and buy some doggy chow.”

She frowned at that, remembering nothing that even resembled a store on the long drive out from Rawlins. Surely she wouldn’t have to go all the way back there just to shop. She should’ve asked Winston. If she didn’t find something before she saw him next, she’d make a point of asking during their next meeting. Meanwhile, she’d given herself a little breathing space. Winston Champlain made her feel crowded, threatened, even, though not in any way that she could easily identify.

Well, it didn’t matter. After their next meeting, she wouldn’t have to really even talk to him again. The boy could visit, just as she’d said, and that undoubtedly meant Winston would have to come along. But their business would be settled by then, and she’d make sure that she was too busy to converse with him. Then, in a few weeks, she’d be out of here. Though she hadn’t really thought it through, yet, she’d never meant to stay. Once all the business was taken care of and the ranch was sold, she’d be on her way. To where?

Dallas no longer seemed to hold any appeal, though she supposed that what remained of her life was there. Still, now that she thought of it, she could go anywhere she pleased. If she wasn’t quite sure where she was pleased to go, well, she’d figure it out later.

For now, insuring that she could feed this old dog was occupation enough.

Chapter Three

Winston stared into the bathroom mirror as he smoothed his hair back from his forehead with a pair of matching brushes which fit neatly into his palms. While intently studying his image, he realized with dismay that his hair needed a trim. Why hadn’t he had his mother get out the scissors and whack off the bottom of it? Impulsively deciding that he should strip off his neatly pressed gray shirt and let her have a go at it right now, he lifted his hand to begin opening the buttons on the heavy cotton placket, which brought his wristwatch into view. One glance showed him that he didn’t have time for such indulgences. Sighing richly, he resigned himself to needing a trim and quickly examined his jaw to be sure he hadn’t missed a spot during his shave, then hurried from the small room.

Snagging his tan felt dress hat from the top of the dresser in his bedroom, he clumped down the stairs in his freshly polished boots and swung around the newel post to stride down the hall and into his mother’s kitchen, the very heart of the house. Suddenly thirsty, he stopped by the sink, ran a glass of cold tap water and drank it down without stopping.

“I’m off,” he said to the room in general, turning toward the coatrack beside the door. His gaze caught on the bloodred bloom of one of his mother’s summer roses standing in a water-filled jar on the windowsill. Even as he reached for his good jean jacket and slung it on, he pictured himself delivering a big bouquet of the rare beauties to Danica Lynch. She would be surprised, then pleased, and she would look at him in a whole new way, appreciation glimmering in her eyes.

“Earth to Winston,” said an amused familiar voice.

Win shook himself free of the ridiculous notion. “Did you say something, Mom?”

As a small, plump woman with dark, graying hair that waved about her face and chin, Madge Champlain was the perfect antithesis to her tall, rawboned, white-haired husband, Buck, who was even now slurping his coffee from a saucer at the table in the center of the room.

“She said, you’re looking fine,” Buck answered Winston. “What she means is you’re mighty well armed for a business discussion.”

Madge whacked Buck reprovingly on the shoulder with a dish towel, her blue eyes twinkling. Win cleared his throat self-consciously. What had he been thinking when he put on these snug, well-starched jeans, best shirt, dress hat and freshly polished boots? This wasn’t a date, after all. “Never hurts to make a good impression,” he muttered.

“Of course, it doesn’t,” Madge agreed placatingly.

Buck slurped and added, “’Specially if she’s as pretty as her sister.”

“More,” Jamesy said matter-of-factly, opening a cabinet to take down a box of cookies. Winston and everyone else stared at him in surprise. After a moment, Jamesy realized it and looked around. “Well, she is,” he said defensively. “She don’t wear all that goop on her face like Mrs. Thacker did, an’ I like her hair.”

“Doesn’t,” Winston corrected automatically, thinking that his son and he were more alike than anyone even knew.

“Huh?”

“She doesn’t wear too much makeup.” Madge said to Jamesy. “I think that’s what you were trying to say.”

“Yeah, okay,” the boy mumbled around the cookie he’d bitten into.

Winston went back to the sink for another drink of water. He was feeling unaccountably dry this evening. Better yet, maybe he ought to have a beer. Might relax him a little, not that he was nervous, exactly—no more than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs! Whatever was wrong with him? he wondered, drying his damp palms on the thighs of his jeans. This wasn’t a date, for pity’s sake. It was business. Nevertheless, he left the water glass beside the sink and went to the refrigerator, where he snagged a beer with one hand. On second thought, he grabbed another and wrapped both in a thick kitchen towel. This way he wouldn’t show up empty-handed and he’d get the relaxing effect when he actually needed it. Tucking the bundle under one arm, he went out, calling to his family, “See you later.”

He paused on the back stoop to pocket a half-chewed stick he’d seen there earlier, then went, not to the battered old truck he usually drove, but to the late model, double-cab dualie that was both the ranch workhorse and the family vehicle. After placing the wrapped bottles carefully on the seat next to him, he started up the truck, slid in a tape and cranked up the volume. He didn’t turn it down again until Danica’s cabin came into view. As he parked the truck, she came out of the house, wearing slender jeans that made her legs look a mile long and a coral pink matching sweater set, with the top sweater cropped just below the bust. The dog padded along at her heels.

Winston dug the beers from the protective towel and carried them in one hand to the steps. He plucked the stick from his pocket and tossed it to the dog. Twig snatched it from midair and loped off with it.

“Wet your whistle?” he asked, holding up one of the brown bottles.

A delicately arched brow lifted high, then she swept the bottle from his hand, stepped down and sat on the edge of the porch, her feet on the bottom step. He sat down next to her. The space was just wide enough to comfortably accommodate them both if they were careful with their elbows. She tucked hers in next to her body, held the bottle between her knees and twisted off the top, which she dropped on the bottom step between her feet.

Winston pushed his hat back, decapitated his own drink and dropped the small metal top into his shirt pocket. Lifting the tall bottle to his lips, he took a good drink of the still cold liquid, sighed with sudden contentment and leaned forward, bracing his elbows against his thighs. “Fine night,” he said, gazing out over the red-washed horizon.

“Mmm,” she agreed, sipping delicately. After a moment, she leaned against the support post of the roof and lifted one foot onto the second step. “It’s peaceful out here.”

He nodded. “No people.” He drank again and expounded, “Funny how it works, isn’t it? People just naturally screw up everything, destroy the peace, clog up the works, make all kinds of trouble, but it’s people, the people you care about, who make everything in this life worthwhile.”

She looked down at that, her free arm crossing over her chest almost protectively. “You have the most irritating way of being absolutely right.”

He thought about that, wondering whether he ought to be complimented or insulted, then another thought occurred. “Well, if I’m so right,” he asked, “how come you’re out here all on your lonesome instead of with the people who should be supporting you now?”

She twisted her upper body so that she could put her head back against the post and took a long drink, grimacing slightly at the end of it. “There aren’t any.” He wasn’t sure he understood that, and it must have showed, for she fixed him with an inscrutable look and elaborated. “I didn’t have anyone but Dorinda. Our parents died years ago.”

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry.”

“Mom was forty-one when we were born, Dad nearly nine years older. I think they’d given up. Then suddenly they had twins.”

“Must’ve been a double shock.”

“You might say that,” she admitted. “Dad always thought he was too old. Maybe he was. He had a stroke when we were seniors in high school. Mom had just been diagnosed with a serious melanoma, and she always felt that brought it on. She fought the cancer, long and hard, then right after we graduated from college, she let go.”

“Man, that’s tough,” Winston said. “I don’t know what Jamesy and I would do without my folks. We almost lost dad in a freak accident a few years ago. Hay baler shot a piece of baling wire about eleven inches long straight into Dad’s chest and right through his heart.”

She sat up straight again, obviously intrigued. “Good grief! What did you do?”

“We called the doc in Rawlins and headed that way with him, baling wire and all. Doc called the hospital in Cheyenne, and they sent a helicopter to meet us. We intersected about an hour south of here. That pilot set it down right in the road, they loaded him up, and by the time we got to Cheyenne, he was in recovery.”

“Thank God you didn’t try to pull out the wire!” Danica said.

Win nodded. “We started to. We really did, but none of us had the nerve. He started to do it himself—he was conscious through the whole thing—but we stopped him.”

“He’d have died if you hadn’t.”

“We know that now.”

“How is he? Fully recovered?”

Winston wiped a bead of perspiration from the beer bottle. “No, not really. The angle of the wire insured maximum damage. He lost a lot of heart tissue. But we all know that it’s a miracle he survived at all, and we’re thankful for what we got.”

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