Colton by

Marriage

Marie Ferrarella

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Prologue

Dedication

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

Copyright

Dear Reader,

Welcome to The Coltons of Montana! Prepare for total immersion in the events of Honey Creek, Montana, a small town dominated by three diverse families: the Coltons, branches of which have appeared in previous miniseries; the Walshes, owners of a famous brewery and keepers of a secret that is about to explode; and the Kelleys, owners of a famous barbeque steakhouse chain.

In this story, I focus on Duke Colton, a stoic rancher of few words who just happens to be related to the current sitting President of the United states, Joe Colton (a man readers met in the last Coltons series) and Susan Kelley, the perpetually optimistic girl-next-door who runs the catering side of her father’s restaurant. Oh, did I happen to mention there’s also the second murder of a man who was killed fifteen years ago?

Interested? Well then, come along for a wild ride.

As ever, I thank you for reading and from the bottom of my heart, I wish you someone to love who loves you back.

All the best,

Marie Ferrarella

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling and RITA Award-winning author MARIE FERRARELLA has written almost two hundred books for silhouette and Harlequin, some under the name of Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website at www.marieferrarella.com.

To Bonnie G. Smith.

Thank you for having

such a wonderful daughter.

Prologue

“It’s here, Sheriff.” Unable to contain his excitement, Boyd Arnold all but hopped up and down as he pointed toward the murky body of water. “I saw it right here, in the creek, when Blackie ran into the water and I chased him out.”

Blackie was what Boyd called his black Labrador retriever. Naming the dog Blackie had been the only unimaginative thing Boyd had ever done. Aside from that one example of dullness, the small-time rancher had an incredibly healthy imagination.

Some people claimed that it was a mite too healthy. At one time or another, Boyd had sworn he’d seen a ghost crossing his field, watched in awe as a UFO landed near Honey Creek, the body of water that the town had been named after, and now he was claiming to have seen a dead body in that very same creek.

As the town’s recently elected sheriff, thirty-three-year-old Wes Colton would have liked just to have dismissed Boyd’s newest tall tale as another figment of the man’s overworked imagination. But, because he was the recently elected sheriff of Honey Creek, he couldn’t. He was too new at the job to point to a gut feeling about things and so he was legally bound to check out each and every story involving wrongdoing no matter how improbable or wild it sounded.

Dead bodies were not the norm in Honey Creek. Most likely someone had dumped a mannequin in the creek in order to play a trick on the gullible Boyd. He hadn’t put a name to the so-called body when he’d come running into the office earlier, tripping over his tongue as if it had grown to three times its size as he tried to say what it was he saw.

“Was it a woman, Boyd?” Wes asked now, trying to find the humor in the situation, although, he had to admit, between the heat and the humidity, his sense of humor was in extremely short supply today. Local opinion had it that a woman of the inflatable variety would be the only way Boyd would be able to find any female companionship at all.

Wes would have much rather been in his air-conditioned office, going over paperwork—something he usually disliked and a lot of which the last sheriff had left as payback for Wes winning the post away from him—than facing the prospect of walking through the water searching for a nonexistent body.

“I think it was a man. Tell the truth, Sheriff, I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. Never can tell when you might come across one of them zombie types, or those body-snatchers, you know.”

Wes looked at him. Boyd’s eyes were all but bulging out. The man was actually serious. He shook his head. “Boyd, you want my advice? You’ve got to stop renting those old horror movies. You’ve got a vivid enough imagination as it is.”

“This wasn’t my imagination, Sheriff,” Boyd insisted stubbornly with feeling. “This was a real live dead person.”

Wes didn’t bother pointing out the blatant contradiction in terms. Instead, he stood at the edge of the creek and looked around.

There was nothing but the sound of mosquitoes settling in for an afternoon feed.

A lot of mosquitoes, judging by the sound of it.

It was going to be a miserable summer, Wes thought. Just as he began to turn toward Boyd to tell the rancher that he must have been mistaken about the location of this “body,” something caught Wes’s eye.

Flies.

An inordinate number of flies.

Mosquitoes weren’t making that noise, it was flies.

Flies tended to swarm around rotting meat and waste. Most likely it was the latter, but Wes had a strong feeling that he wasn’t going to be free of Boyd until he at least checked out what the insects were swarming around.

“There, Sheriff, look there,” Boyd cried excitedly, pointing to something that appeared to be three-quarters submerged in the creek.

Something that had attracted the huge number of flies.

There was no way around not getting his newly cleaned uniform dirty, Wes thought. Resigning himself to the unpleasant ordeal, Honey Creek’s newly minted sheriff waded in.

Annoyance vanished as he drew closer to what the flies were laying claim to.

“Damn, but I think you’re right, Boyd. That does look like a body,” Wes declared. Forgetting about his uniform, he went in deeper. Whatever it was was only a few feet away.

“See, I told you!” Boyd crowed, happy to be vindicated. He was grinning from ear to ear like a little kid on Christmas morning. His expression was in sharp contrast to the sheriff’s. The latter had become deadly serious.

It appeared to be a dead body all right. Did it belong to some vagrant who’d been passing through when he’d arbitrarily picked Honey Creek to die?

Or had someone dumped a body here from one of the neighboring towns? And if so, which one?

Bracing himself, Wes turned the body over so that he could view the face before he dragged the corpse out.

When he flipped the dead man over, his breath stopped in his lungs. The man had a single bullet in the middle of his forehead and he was missing half his face.

But the other half could still be made out.

At the same moment, unable to stay back, Boyd peered over his shoulder. The rancher’s eyes grew huge and he cried out, “It’s Mark Walsh!” No sooner was the name out of his mouth than questions and contradictions occurred to Boyd. “But he’s dead.” Confused, Boyd stared at Wes, waiting for him to say something that made sense out of this. “How can he look that fresh? He’s been dead fifteen years!”

“Apparently Walsh wasn’t as dead as we thought he was,” Wes told him.

It was extremely difficult for Wes to maintain his decorum, not to mention an even voice, when all he could think of was that finally, after all these years, his brother was going to get out of jail.

Because Damien Colton had been convicted of a murder that had never happened.

Until now.

Chapter 1

Duke Colton didn’t know what made him look in that direction, but once he did, he couldn’t look away. Even though he wanted to.

Moreover, he wanted to keep walking. To pretend that he hadn’t seen her, especially not like that.

Susan Kelley’s head was still down, her short, dark-blond hair almost acting like a curtain, and she seemed oblivious to the world around her as she sat on the bench to the side of the hospital entrance, tears sliding down her flawless cheeks.

Duke reasoned that it would have been very easy either to turn on his heel and walk in another direction, or just to pick up speed, look straight ahead and get the hell out of there before the Kelley girl looked up.

Especially since she seemed so withdrawn and lost to the world.

He’d be doing her a favor, Duke told himself, if he just ignored this pretty heart-wrenching display of sadness. Nobody liked looking this vulnerable. God knew that he wouldn’t.

Not that he would actually cry in public—or private for that matter. When he came right down to it, Duke was fairly certain that he couldn’t cry, period. No matter what the situation was.

Hell, he’d pretty much been the last word in stoic. But then, he thought, he’d had to be, seeing as how things hadn’t exactly gone all that well in his life—or his family’s life—up to this point.

Every instinct he had told Duke he should be moving fast, getting out of Susan’s range of vision. Now. Yet it was as if his feet had been dipped in some kind of super-strong glue.

He couldn’t make them move.

He was lingering. Why, he couldn’t even begin to speculate. It wasn’t as though he was one of those people who was bolstered by other people’s displays of unhappiness. He’d never believed in that old adage about misery loving company. When he came right down to it, he’d never had much use for misery, his own or anybody else’s. For the most part, he liked keeping a low profile and staying out of the way.

And he sure as hell had no idea what to do when confronted with a woman’s tears—other than running for the hills, face averted and feigning ignorance of the occurrence. He’d never lay claim to being one of those guys who knew what to say in a regular situation, much less one where he was front-row center to a woman’s tear-stained face. But this was Susan.

Susan Kelley. He’d watched Susan grow up from an awkward little girl to an outgoing, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed little charmer who somehow managed to be completely oblivious to the fact that she was as beautiful as all get out.

Susan was the one who cheered people up. She never cried. Not that he was much of an expert on what Susan did or didn’t do. He just heard things. The way a man survived was to keep his eyes and his ears open, and his mouth shut.

Ever since his twin brother Damien was hauled off to jail because everyone in town believed he had killed Mark Walsh, Duke saw little to no reason to socialize with the people in Honey Creek. And Walsh was no angel. Most people had hated him. The truth of it was, if ever someone had deserved being killed, it was Walsh. Mark Walsh was nasty, bad-tempered and he cheated on his wife every opportunity he got. And Walsh and Damien had had words, hot words, over Walsh’s daughter, Lucy.

Even so, Damien hadn’t killed him.

Duke frowned as, for a moment, fifteen years melted away. He remembered watching the prison bars slam, separating him from Damien. He didn’t know who had killed that evil-tempered waste of human flesh, but he would have bet his life that it wasn’t Damien.

Now, like a magnet, his green eyes were riveted to Susan.

Damn it, what was she crying about?

He blew out an impatient breath. A woman who was that shaken up about something shouldn’t be sitting by herself like that. Someone should be with her, saying something. He didn’t know what, but something. Something comforting.

Duke looked around, hoping to ease his conscience—and not feel guilty about his desire to get away—by seeing someone approaching the sobbing little blonde.

There was no one.

She was sitting by herself, as alone as he’d ever seen anyone on this earth. As alone as he felt a great deal of the time.

Damn it, he didn’t want to be in this position. Didn’t want to have to go over.

What was the matter with him?

He didn’t owe her anything. Why couldn’t he just go? Go and put this scene of vulnerability behind him? He wasn’t her keeper.

Or her friend.

Susan pressed her lips together to hold back another sob. She hadn’t meant to break down like this. She’d managed to hold herself together all this time, through all the visits, all the dark days. Hold herself together even when she’d silently admitted, more than once, that one conclusion was inevitable. Miranda was going to die.

Die even though she was only twenty-five years old, just like her. Twenty-five, with all of life standing right before her to run through, the way a young child would run barefoot through a field of spring daisies, with enthusiasm and joy, tickled by the very act.

Instead, six months ago Miranda had heard those most dreadful of words, You have cancer, and they had turned out to be a death sentence rather than a battlefield she could somehow fight her way through.

Now that she’d started, Susan couldn’t seem to stop crying. Sobs wracked her body.

She and Miranda were friends—best friends. It felt as if they’d been friends forever, but it only amounted to a tiny bit more than five years. Five years that had gone by in the blink of an eye.

God knows she’d tried very, very hard to be brave for Miranda. Though it got harder and harder, she’d put on a brave face every time she’d walked into Miranda’s line of vision. A line of vision that grew progressively smaller and smaller in range until finally, it had been reduced to the confines of a hospital room.

The room where Miranda had died just a few minutes ago.

That was when the dam she’d been struggling to keep intact had burst.

Walking quickly, she’d made it out of Miranda’s room and somehow, she’d even made it out of the hospital. But the trip from the outer doors to the parking lot where she’d left her car, that was something she just couldn’t manage dry-eyed.

So instead of crossing the length of the parking lot, sobbing and drawing unwanted attention to herself, Susan had retreated to the bench off to the side of the entrance, an afterthought for people who just wanted to collect themselves before entering the tall building or rest before they attempted the drive home.

But she wasn’t collecting herself, she was falling apart. Sobbing as if her heart was breaking.

Because it was.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair to die so young, wasn’t fair to have to endure the kind of pain Miranda had had just before she’d surrendered, giving up the valiant struggle once and for all.

Her chest hurt as the sobs continued to escape.

Susan knew that on some level, crying like this was selfish of her. After all, it wasn’t as if she was alone. She had her family—large, sprawling, friendly and noisy, they were there for her. The youngest of six, she had four sisters and a brother, all of whom she loved dearly and got along with decently now that they were all grown.

The same could be said about her parents, although there were times when her mother’s overly loud laments about dying before she ever saw one viable grandchild did get under her skin a little. Nonetheless, she was one of the lucky ones. She had people in her life, people to turn to.

So why did she feel so alone, so lonely? Was grief causing her to lose touch with reality? She knew that if she picked up the phone and called one of them, they’d be at her side as quickly as possible.

As would Linc.

She and Lincoln Hayes had grown up together. He’d been her friend for years. Longer than Miranda had actually been. But even so, having him here, having any of them here right now, at this moment, just wouldn’t take away this awful feeling of overwhelming sorrow and loss.

She supposed she felt this way because she was not only mourning the loss of a dear, wonderful friend, mourning the loss of Miranda’s life, she was also, at bottom, mourning the loss of her own childhood. Because Death had stolen away her own innocence. Death had ushered in an overwhelming darkness that had never been there before.

Nothing was every going to be the same again.

And Susan knew without being told that for a long time to come, she was going reach for the phone, beginning calls she wouldn’t complete, driven by a desire to share things with someone she couldn’t share anything with any longer.

God, she was going to miss Miranda. Miss sharing secrets and laughing and talking until the wee hours of the morning.

More tears came. She felt drained and still they came.

Susan lost track of time.

She had no idea how long she’d been sitting on that bench, sobbing like that. All she knew was that she felt almost completely dehydrated. Like a sponge that had been wrung out.

She should get up and go home before everyone began to wonder what had happened to her. She had a wedding to cater tomorrow. Or maybe it was a birthday party. She couldn’t remember. But there was work to do, menus to arrange.

And God knew she didn’t want to worry her parents. She’d told them that she was only leaving for an hour or so. Since she worked at the family restaurant and still lived at home, or at least, in the guesthouse on the estate, her parents kept closer track of her than they might have had she been out somewhere on her own.

Her fault.

Everything was her fault, Susan thought, upbraiding herself.

If she’d insisted that Miranda go see the doctor when her friend had started feeling sick and began complaining of bouts of nausea coupled with pain, maybe Miranda would still be alive today instead of…

Susan exhaled a shaky breath.

What was the point? Going over the terrain again wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring Miranda back. Miranda was gone and life had suddenly taken on a more temporary, fragile bearing. There was no more “forever” on the horizon. Infinity had become finite.

Susan glanced up abruptly, feeling as if she was being watched. When she raised her eyes, she was more than slightly prepared to see Linc looking back at her. It wouldn’t be that unusual for him to come looking for her if he thought she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. He’d appointed himself her keeper and while she really did value his friendship, there was a part of her that was beginning to feel smothered by his continuous closeness.

But when she looked up, it wasn’t Linc’s eyes looking back at her. Nor were they eyes belonging to some passing stranger whose attention had been momentarily captured by the sight of a woman sobbing her heart out.

The eyes she was looking up into were green.

Intensely green, even with all that distance between them. Green eyes she couldn’t fathom, Susan thought. The expression on the man’s face, however, was not a mystery. It was frowning. In disapproval for her semi-public display of grief?

Or was it just in judgment of her?

Duke was wearing something a little more intense than his usual frown. Try as she might, Susan couldn’t recall the brooding rancher with the aura of raw sexuality about him ever really smiling. It was actually hard even to summon a memory of the man that contained a neutral expression on his face.

It seemed to her that Duke always appeared to be annoyed. More than annoyed, a good deal of the time he looked angry. Not that she could really blame him. He was angry at his twin for having done what he’d done and bringing dishonor to the family name.

Or, at least that was what she assumed his scowl and anger were all about.

Embarrassed at being observed, Susan quickly wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. She had no tissues or handkerchief with her, although she knew she should have had the presence of mind to bring one or the other with her, given the situation she knew she might be facing.

Maybe she hadn’t because she’d secretly hoped that if she didn’t bring either a handkerchief or tissues, there wouldn’t be anything to cry about.

For a moment, she was almost positive that Duke was going to turn and walk away, his look of what was now beginning to resemble abject disgust remaining on his face.

But then, instead of walking away, he began walking toward her.

Her stomach fluttered ever so slightly. Susan straightened her shoulders and sat up a little more rigidly. For some unknown reason, she could feel her mouth going dry.

Probably because you’re completely dehydrated. How much water do you think you’ve got left in you?

She would have risen to her feet and started to walk away if she could have, but her legs felt oddly weak and disjointed, as if they didn’t quite belong to her. Susan was actually afraid that if she tried to stand up, her knees would give way beneath her and she would collapse back onto the bench. Then Duke would really look contemptuously at her, and she didn’t think she was up to that.

Not that it should matter to her what Duke Colton thought, or didn’t think, of her, she silently told herself in the next breath. She just didn’t want to look like a complete idiot, that was all. Her nose was probably already red and her eyes had to be exceedingly puffy by now.

Crossing to her, still not uttering a single word in acknowledgment of her present state or even so much as a greeting, Duke abruptly shoved his hand into his pocket, extracted something and held it out to her.

Susan blinked. Duke was holding out a surprisingly neatly folded white handkerchief.

When she made no move to take it from him, he all but growled, “Here, you seem to need this a lot more than I do.”

Embarrassment colored her cheeks, making her complexion entirely pink at this point. “No, that’s all right,” she sniffed, again vainly trying to brush away what amounted to a sheet’s worth of tears with the back of her hand.

“Take it.” This time he did growl and it was an unmistakable command that left no room for refusal or even wavering debate.

Sniffing again, Susan took the handkerchief from him and murmured a barely audible, “Thank you.”

He said nothing for a moment, only watched her as she slid the material along first one cheek and then the other, drying the tear stains from her skin.

When she stopped, he coaxed her on further, saying, “You can blow your nose with it. It won’t rip. I’ve used it myself. Not this time,” he corrected uncomfortably. “It’s been washed since then.”

A glimmer of a smile of amusement flittered across her lips. Susan couldn’t begin to explain why, but she felt better. A lot better. As if the pain that had been growing inside of her had suddenly abated and begun shrinking back down to a manageable size.

She was about to say something to him about his kindness and about his riding to the rescue—something that seemed to suit his tall, dark, closed-mouth demeanor—when she heard someone calling out her name.

Linc. She’d know his voice anywhere. Even when it had an impatient edge to it.

The next moment, Linc was next to her, enveloping her in a hug. Without meaning to, she felt herself stiffening. She didn’t want to be hugged. She didn’t want to be pitied or treated like some fragile child who’d been bruised and needed protection.

If he noticed her reaction, Linc gave no indication that it registered. Instead, leaving the embrace, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, still offering protection.

“There you are, Susan. Everyone’s worried about you,” he said, as if he was part of her family. “I came to bring you home,” he announced a bit louder than he needed to. And then his voice took on an affectionate, scolding tone. “I told you that you shouldn’t have come here without me.” Still holding her to him, he brushed aside a tear that she must have missed. “C’mon, honey, let’s get you out of here.”

A while back, she’d allowed their friendship to drift toward something more. But it had been a mistake. She didn’t feel that way about Linc. She’d tried to let him down gently, to let him know politely that it was his friendship she valued, that there was never going to be anything else between them. But Linc seemed not to get the message. He seemed very comfortable with the notion of taking control of her life.

She found herself chafing against that notion and feeling restless.

He was being rude and completely ignoring Duke, she thought. Duke might not care, but she did.

Susan turned to say something to the rancher, to thank him for his handkerchief and his thoughtfulness, but when she looked where he’d just been, he was gone.

He’d left without saying another word to her.

The next moment, Linc was ushering her away, leading her toward the parking lot. She heard him talking to her, saying something about how relieved he was, or words to that effect.

But her mind was elsewhere.

Chapter 2

You really shouldn’t try to face these kinds of things alone, Susan,” Linc quietly chided her as he guided Susan to his car. Once beside the shiny silver convertible, he stopped walking. “I’m here for you, you know that. And I’ll always be here for you,” he told her with firm enthusiasm.

“Yes, I know that.” Fidgeting inside, Susan looked around the lot, trying to remember where she’d parked her own car. Linc meant well, but she really wanted to be by herself right now. “And I appreciate everything you’re trying to do, Linc, but—”

Her voice trailed off for a moment. How did she tell him that he was crowding her without sounding as if she was being completely ungrateful? He was only trying to be kind, to second-guess her needs, she knew all that. But despite all that, despite his good intentions and her understanding, it still felt as if he was sucking up all the oxygen around her and she just couldn’t put up with that right now.

Maybe later, when things settled down and fell into place she could appreciate Linc for what he was trying to do, but right now, she felt as if she desperately needed her space, needed to somehow make peace with this sorrow that kept insisting on finding her no matter which way she turned.

Linc opened the passenger door, but she continued to stand there, scanning the lot. He frowned. “What are you looking for? “

“My car.” Even as she said it, Susan spotted her silver-blue four-door sedan. She breathed a sigh of relief.

He opened the passenger door wider, silently insisting that she get inside. “You’re not up to driving, Susan. I’ll take you home.”

Her eyes met his. Susan did her best to keep her voice on an even keel, even though her temper felt suddenly very brittle.

“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do, Linc. I can drive. I want to drive my car,” she told him with emphasis.

He pantomimed pressing something down with both hands. Her temper? Was that what he was insinuating? She felt her temper flaring.

“Don’t get hysterical, Susan,” he warned.

The words, not to mention the action, were tantamount to waving a red flag in front of her. If the words were meant to subdue her, they achieved the exact opposite effect.

“I am not hysterical, Linc,” she informed him firmly, “I just want to be alone for a while.”

“You didn’t look very alone a couple of minutes ago.” For a moment she thought he was going to pout, then abruptly his expression changed, as if he’d suddenly come up with an answer that satisfied him. “Was he bothering you?”

Susan stared at Linc, confused and wondering how he’d come to that kind of conclusion. Based on what? “Who?” she wanted to know.

“That Colton guy. You know who I mean. His brother killed Lucy Walsh’s father,” he said impatiently, trying to remember the man’s name. “Duke,” he finally recalled, then asked again as he peered at her face, “Was he bothering you?”

She felt as if Linc was suddenly interrogating her. Not only that, but she felt rather defensive for Duke, although she really hadn’t a clue as to why. She’d had a crush on him when she was a teenager, but that was years in the past.

Still, he’d stopped and given her a handkerchief when he didn’t have to.

“No, what makes you say that?”

Linc’s shoulders rose and fell in a spasmodic shrug. “Well, you just said you wanted to be alone, and when I found you, he was in your face—”

Susan was quick to interrupt him. Linc had a tendency to get carried away. “He wasn’t in my face, Linc. He hardly said a whole sentence.”

Linc’s expression told her that it hadn’t looked that way from where he was standing. “Then he was just staring at you?”

Susan didn’t like the tone that Linc was taking with her. He was invading her private space, going where he had no business venturing. He was her friend, not her father or her husband. And even then he wouldn’t have the right to act this way.

“In part,” she finally said. “Look, he saw I was crying and he gave me his handkerchief. No questions, nothing, just his handkerchief.”

Linc snorted. “Lucky for you he didn’t try strangling you with it.”

It was a blatant reference to one of the theories surrounding Mark Walsh’s death. The county coroner had said that it appeared Mark Walsh had been strangled, among other things, before his face was bashed in, the latter being the final blow that had ushered death in.

Susan just wanted to get away, to mourn her best friend’s passing in peace, not be subjected to this cross-examination that Linc seemed determined to conduct. She lifted her chin stubbornly. “Duke’s not Damien,” she pointed out.

The look on Linc’s face was contemptuous, both of her statement and of the man it concerned.

“I dunno about that. They say that twins have an unnatural connection. Maybe he’s just like his brother.” Linc drew himself up, squaring his shoulders before issuing a warning. “I don’t want you talking to Duke Colton or having anything to do with him.”

For a second, even with the emotional pain she was trying to deal with, Susan could feel her temper really flaring. Linc was making noises like a possessive boyfriend, and that was the last thing on earth she needed or wanted right now. “Linc, it’s not your place to tell me what to do or not do.”

Realizing the tactical error he’d just committed, Linc tried to backtrack as quickly as he could and still save face.

“Sure it is,” he insisted. “I care about you, Susan. I care about what happens to you. We don’t know what these Coltons are really capable of,” he warned. “And I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you because I didn’t say something.”

Did Linc really think she was so clueless that she needed guidance? That she was so naive that she was incapable of taking charge of her own life? From out of nowhere a wave of resentment surged within her. She struggled to tamp it down.

She was just upset, Susan told herself. And Linc did mean well, even if he could come across as overbearing at times.

It took effort, but she managed to force a smile to her lips. “I’ll be all right, Linc. Don’t worry so much. And I’m still driving myself home,” she added in case he thought he’d talked her out of that.

She could see that Linc didn’t like her refusing his help, but he made no protest and merely nodded his head. She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when Linc unexpectedly added, “All right, I’ll follow you.”

Susan opened her mouth to tell him that he really didn’t have to put himself out like that, but she had a feeling that she’d just be wasting her breath, and she was in no mood to argue.

Maybe she was being unfair. Another woman would have been thrilled to have someone voluntarily offer to all but wrap her in cotton and watch over her like this. There was a part of her that thought she’d be thrilled, as well. But now, coming face to face with it, she found it almost suffocating. All she wanted to do was run away.

Maybe she was overreacting, making too much of what was, at bottom, an act of kindness. But if she was overreacting, she did have a really good excuse. Someone she loved dearly had just died and blown a hole in her world, and it was going to take a while to come to terms with that.

Rather than prolong this no-win debate, Susan nodded. “All right, I’ll see you at the house.” With that, she turned and walked quickly over to where she’d parked her vehicle.

Duke watched the tall, slim, attractive young blonde make her way through the parking lot. More to the point, she was walking away from that annoying prissy little friend of hers.

Lincoln Hayes.

Now, there was a stalker in the making if he ever saw one, Duke judged. He wondered if Susan was aware of that, of what that Linc character was capable of.

Not his affair, Duke told himself in the next moment. The perky little girl with the swollen eyes was her own person. There was no reason for him to be hovering in the background like some wayward dark cloud on the horizon, watching over her. She might look like the naive girl next door, but he had a feeling that when push came to shove, Susan Kelley was a lot stronger, character-wise, than she appeared.

A fact, he had a feeling, that wouldn’t exactly please Lincoln Hayes.

And even if she could be pushed around by the likes of Hayes, what was that to him? Why did he feel this need to make sure she was all right? The girl had his handkerchief and he wanted it back. Eventually. There was absolutely no other reason to pay attention to her, to her comings and goings and to whether that spineless jellyfish, Hayes, actually turned out to be a stalker.

Annoyed with himself, with the fact that he wasn’t leaving, Duke watched as Susan crossed to the extreme right side of the lot and got into her car, a neat little sedan that would have been all but useless on his own ranch. It wouldn’t have been able to haul much, other than Susan and some of her skinny friends.

Her sedan came to life. Another minute and she was driving off the lot.

Rubbing his hands on the back of his jeans, Duke got into the cab of his beat-up dark-blue pickup and drove away.

“Have you been crying? “

Bonnie Gene Kelley fired the question, fueled by concern, the moment her daughter walked into the rear of Kelley’s Cookhouse, the restaurant that she and her husband Donald ran and had turned into a nation-wide chain.

Seeing for herself that the answer to her question was yes, Bonnie Gene quickly crossed to her youngest child and immediately immersed herself in Susan’s life. “Did you and that boy get into an argument?” she wanted to know.

Ever eager for one of her children to finally make her a grandmother, the way all her friends’ children had, Bonnie Gene fanned every fire that potentially had an iron in it. In Susan’s case, that iron had a name: Lincoln Hayes.

Lincoln wouldn’t have been her first choice, or even her second one. Bonnie Gene liked her men more manly, the way her Donald was—or had been before the good life had managed to fatten him up. But Linc was here and he was crazy about Susan. Her daughter could do a lot worse than marry the boy, she supposed.

But if he made Susan cry, then all bets were off. She absolutely wouldn’t stand for someone who could wound her youngest born to the extent of making her cry. Sophisticated and worldly—as worldly as anyone could be, given that they were living in a place like Honey Creek, Montana—her maternal claws would immediately emerge, razor-sharp and ready, whenever one of her children was hurt, physically or emotionally.

“No, Mother,” Susan replied evenly, wishing she’d waited before walking into work, “we didn’t get into an argument.”

Part of her just wanted to dash up to her room and shut the door, the other part wanted to be enfolded in her mother’s arms and be told that everything was still all right. That the sun still rose in the east and set in the west and everything in between was just fine.

Except that it wasn’t. And she needed to grow up and face that.

“Is Miranda worse?” her father asked sympathetically, coming out of the large storage room where they kept the supplies and foodstuffs that were being used that day. He pushed the unlit cigar in his mouth over to the side with his tongue in order to sound more intelligible.

Focusing on her husband for a moment, Bonnie Gene allowed an annoyed huff to escape her lips. She marched over to him, plucked the cigar out of his mouth and made a dramatic show of dropping it into the uncovered trash basket in the corner. It was an ongoing tug of war between them. Donald Kelley seemed to possess an endless supply of cigars and Bonnie Gene apparently possessed an endless supply of patience as she removed and threw away each one she saw him put into his mouth.

Susan had long since stopped thinking that her father actually intended to smoke any of these cigars. In her opinion, he just enjoyed baiting her mother.

But today Susan didn’t care about the game or whether her father actually smoked the “wretched things” as her mother called them. All of that had been rendered meaningless, at least for now. Her friend was dead and she was never going to see Miranda again. Her heart hurt.

“Miranda’s gone,” Susan said in small, quiet voice, answering her father’s question.

“Gone?” he echoed. “Gone where?” When his wife gave him a sharp look, a light seemed to go on in his head and Donald realized what Susan had just told him. “Oh. Gone.” A chagrined expression washed over his face as he came over to his youngest child. “Susan, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” he told her. The squat, burly man embraced her, a feat that had been a great deal easier in the days before his gut had grown to the size that it had.

Coming between them, Bonnie gently removed Susan from Donald’s grasp, turned the girl toward her and hugged her daughter closely.

For a moment, nothing was said. The other people in the kitchen, employees who had helped make the original restaurant the success that it was, went about their business, deliberately giving their employers and their daughter privacy until such time as they were invited to take part in whatever it was that was happening.

Still holding Susan to her chest and stroking her hair, the way she used to when she had been a little girl, Bonnie Gene said gently, “Susan, you knew this day was coming.”

She had. Deep down, she had, but that didn’t mean that she hadn’t still hoped—fervently prayed—that it wouldn’t. That a miracle would intervene.

“I know,” Susan said, struggling again to regain control over her emotions, “it’s just that it came too soon.”

“It always comes too soon,” Bonnie Gene told her daughter with the voice of experience. “No matter how long it takes to get here.”

Bonnie Gene had no doubt that if Donald were to die before she did it wouldn’t matter whether they’d been together for the past hundred years. It would still be too soon and she would still be bargaining with God to give her “just a little more time” with the man she loved.

“She’s in a better place now, kiddo,” Susan’s father told her, giving her back a comforting, albeit awkward pat. “She’s not hurting anymore.”

Bonnie Gene looked at her husband, a flicker of impatience in her light-brown eyes. She tossed her head, sending her dark-brown hair over her shoulder. “Everyone always says that,” she said dismissively.

“Don’t make it any less true,” Donald told her stubbornly, pausing to fish the cigar out of the trash. He brushed it off with his fingers, as if the cursory action would send any germs scattering.

Bonnie Gene’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her husband over her daughter’s shoulder. “You put that in your mouth, Donald Kelley,” she hissed, “and you’re a dead man.”

Donald weighed his options. He knew his wife was passionate about him not smoking, and she seemed to be on a personal crusade these days against his beloved cigars. With a loud sigh, Donald allowed the cigar to fall from his fingers, landing back in the trash. There were plenty more cigars in the house—and a few of them stashed in various out-of-the-way places. Places that Bonnie Gene hadn’t been able to find yet. He could wait.

The rear door opened and closed for a second time. All three Kelleys turned to see Linc walk in. He was accompanied by a blast of hot July air. It was like an oven outside. A hot, sticky, moist oven.

“I must have caught every red light from the hospital to the restaurant,” Linc complained, addressing his words to the world at large.

Bonnie Gene felt her daughter stiffen the moment she heard Linc’s voice. The reaction was not wasted on her. Her mother’s instincts instantly kicked in.

Releasing Susan, she approached her daughter’s self-appointed shadow. “Linc, I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

It was no secret that Linc was eager to score any brownie points with the senior Kelleys that he could. “Anything, Mrs. Kelley.”

“The linen service forgot to send over five of our tablecloths. Be a dear and run over to Albert’s Linens and get them.” Taking the latest receipt and a note she’d hastily jotted down less than an hour ago, she handed both to Lincoln. “Nita at the service is already waiting for someone to come for them. Just show her these,” she instructed.

Lincoln glanced at the receipt and the note, looking somewhat torn about the assignment he’d been given. It was obvious that he’d hoped that whatever it was that Susan’s mother wanted done could be done on the premises and near Susan.

But then he nodded and promised, “I’ll be right back.” He looked at Susan, possibly hoping that she would offer to come with him, but she didn’t. With a suppressed sigh and a forced smile, he turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen through the same door he’d come in.

Susan looked at her mother. It completely amazed her how the woman who could drive her so absolutely crazy when the subject of marriage and babies came up could still somehow be so very intuitive.

She flashed her mother a relieved smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

Bonnie Gene’s eyes crinkled as she smiled with pleasure. “That’s what I’m here for, honey. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Here for what?” Mystified, Donald looked first at his wife then at his daughter, trying to understand what had just happened. “And thanks for what?”

But rather than answer him, his wife and his daughter had gone off in completely opposite directions, leaving him to ponder his own questions as he scratched the thick, short white hair on his head. The action unintentionally drew his attention to the fact that his haircut, courtesy of his wife whom he insisted be the only one to cut his hair, was sadly lopsided. Again.

Though she’d been cutting his hair ever since they had gotten married all those years ago—originally out of necessity, now out of his need for a sense of tradition—Bonnie Gene had never managed to get the hang of cutting it evenly.

Donald didn’t mind. He rather liked the way the uneven haircut made him look. He thought it made him appear rakish. Like the bad boy he’d never had time to be. And because he was who he was, the owner of a national chain of restaurants, no one ever attempted to tell him any differently.

Glancing over his shoulder in the direction that his wife had gone—to the front of the restaurant, undoubtedly to rub elbows with the customers—Donald quickly dipped into the trash basket and retrieved his cigar for a second time. This time, he didn’t bother going through the motions of dusting it off. Instead, he just slipped it into his pants pocket.

With a satisfied smile, Donald assumed a deliberately innocent expression. Hands shoved into his pockets—his left protectively covering the cigar—he began to whistle as he walked toward the swinging double doors that led into the dining hall.

Life was good, he thought.

Chapter 3

The moment he’d realized that this time Boyd Arnold’s discovery wasn’t just a figment of his imagination, Wes had firmly sworn Boyd to secrecy. Knowing that Boyd had a tendency to run off at the mouth, words flowing as freely as the creek did in the winter after the first big snowstorm, he’d been forced to threaten the small-time rancher with jail time if he so much as breathed a word to anyone.

Boyd had appeared to be properly forewarned, his demeanor unusually solemn.

As for him, despite the fact that the words kept insisting on bubbling up in his throat and on his tongue, desperate for release, Wes hadn’t even shared the news with his family. Not yet. He couldn’t. He needed to be absolutely sure that the man with the partially destroyed face—he supposed the fish in the creek had to survive, too—actually was Mark Walsh.

There would be nothing more embarrassing, not to mention that it would also undermine the capabilities of the office of the sheriff, than to have to take back an announcement of this magnitude. After all, Mark Walsh had already been presumed murdered once and his supposed killer had been tried and sentenced. To say, “Oops, we were wrong once, but he’s really dead now,” wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

His reasons for keeping this under wraps were all valid. But that didn’t make keeping the secret to himself any easier for Wes. However, he had no choice. Until the county coroner completed his autopsy and managed to match Mark Walsh’s dental records with the body that had been fished out of the creek, Wes fully intended to keep a tight lid on the news, no matter how difficult it got for him. Why dental records weren’t used properly to identify the victim of the first crime was anybody’s guess.

With any luck, he wouldn’t have to hold his tongue for much longer. He desperately wanted to start the wheels turning for Damien’s release. If the body in the morgue was Mark Walsh, then there was no way his older brother had killed the man over fifteen years ago. Not that he, or any of the family, including seven brothers and sisters, had ever believed that Damien was guilty. Some of the Colton men might have hot tempers, but none of them would ever commit murder. He’d stake not just his reputation but his life on that.

Damien was going to be a free man—once all that life-suffocating red tape was gotten through.

Damn, he thought, finally.

Deep down in his soul, he’d always known Damien hadn’t killed Mark. Been as sure of it as he was that the sun was going to rise in the east tomorrow morning.

He supposed that was one of the reasons he’d run for sheriff, to look into the case, to wade through the files that dealt with the murder and see if there was anything that could be used to reopen the case.

Now he didn’t have to, he thought with a satisfied smile.

And he owed it all to Boyd, at least in a way. Granted, the body would have been there no matter what, but Boyd was the one who’d led him to it.

Who knew, if Boyd hadn’t decided to sneak off and go duck-hunting—something that was not in season—maybe the fish would have eventually feasted on the rest of Walsh, doing away with the body and effectively annihilating any evidence that would have pointed toward Damien’s innocence.

In that case, Damien would have stayed in prison, sinking deeper and deeper into that dark abyss where he’d taken up residence ever since the guilty verdict had been delivered fifteen years ago.

Wes made a mental note to call the county coroner’s office later this afternoon to see how the autopsy was coming along—and give the man a nudge if he was dragging his heels. Max Crawford was the only coroner in these parts, but it wasn’t as if the doctor was exactly drowning in bodies. Homicide was not a regular occurrence around here.

Smiling broadly, Wes poured himself his second cup of coffee of the morning. He was anxious to set his older brother’s mind—if not his body—free. The sooner he told Damien about the discovery at Honey Creek, the sooner Damien would have hope and could begin walking the path that would lead him back home.

That had a nice ring to it, Wes thought, heading back to his desk. A really nice ring.

Miranda James had been an only child with no family. Her mother, Beth, had died two years ago, ironically from the same cancer that had claimed Miranda—and her father had taken off for parts unknown less than a week after Miranda was born, declaring he didn’t have what it took to be a father. Because there was no one else to do it, Susan had taken upon herself all the funeral arrangements.

Bonnie Gene had offered to help, but one look at her daughter’s determined face told the five foot-six, striking woman that this was something that Susan needed to do herself. Respectful of Susan’s feelings, Bonnie Gene had backed away, saying only that if Susan needed her, she knew where to find her.

Susan was rather surprised at this turn of events, since her mother was such a take-charge person, but she was relieved that Bonnie Gene had backed off. It was almost cathartic to handle everything herself. Granted, it wasn’t easy, juggling her full-time work schedule and the myriad of details that went into organizing the service and the actual burial at the cemetery, but she wasn’t looking for easy. Susan was looking for right. She wanted to do right by her best friend.

Wanted, if Miranda could look down from heaven, to have her friend smile at the way the ceremony had come together to honor her all-too-brief life.

So, three days after she’d sunk down on the bench outside the hospital, crying and trying to come to grips with the devastating loss of her best friend, Susan was standing at Miranda’s graveside, listening to the soft-voiced, balding minister saying words that echoed her own feelings: that the good were taken all too quickly from this life, leaving a huge hole that proved to be very difficult to fill.

Only half listening now, Susan ached all over, both inside and out. In the last three days, she’d hardly gotten more than a few hours sleep each night, but she had not only the satisfaction of having made all the funeral arrangements but also of not dropping the ball when it came to the catering end of the family business.

As far as the latter went, her mother had been a little more insistent that she either accept help or back off altogether, but Susan had remained firm. Eventually, it had been Bonnie Gene who had backed off. When she had, there’d been a proud look in her light-brown eyes.

Having her mother proud of her meant the world to Susan. Especially right now.

Susan looked around at the mourners who filled the cemetery. It was, she thought, a nice turnout. All of Miranda’s friends were here, including mutual friends, like Mary Walsh. And, not only Susan’s parents, Donald and Bonnie Gene, but her four sisters and her brother had come to both the church service and the graveside ceremony.

They’d all come to pay their respects and to mourn the loss of someone so young, so vital. If she were being honest with herself, Susan was just a little surprised that so many people had actually turned up. Surprised and very pleased.

See how many people liked you, Miranda? she asked silently, looking down at the highly polished casket. Bet you didn’t know there were this many.

Susan glanced around again as the winches and pulleys that had lowered the casket into the grave were released by the men from the funeral parlor. At the last moment, she didn’t want to dwell on the sight of the casket being buried. She preferred thinking of Miranda lying quietly asleep in the casket the way she had viewed her friend the night before at the wake.

That way—

Susan’s thoughts abruptly melted away as she watched the tall, lean rancher make his way toward her. Or maybe he was making his way toward the cemetery entrance in order to leave.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Susan moved directly into Duke’s path just before he passed her parents and her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

It was a sunny day, and it was probably his imagination, but the sun seemed to be focusing on Susan’s hair, making some of the strands appear almost golden. Duke cleared his throat, wishing he could clear his mind just as easily.

Duke minced no words. He’d never learned how. “Same as you. Paying my last respects to someone who apparently meant a great deal to you. I figure she had to be a really nice person for you to cry as much as you did when she died.”

Susan took a deep, fortifying breath before answering him.

“She was,” she replied. “A very nice person.” She watched as the minister withdrew and the crowd began to thin out. The mourners had all been invited to her parents’ house for a reception. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

Duke thought of his twin brother, of Damien spending the best part of his life behind bars for a crime he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt his brother hadn’t committed. They were connected, he and Damien. Connected in such a way that made him certain that if Damien had killed Walsh the way everyone said, he would have known. He would have felt it somehow.

But he hadn’t.

And that meant that Damien hadn’t killed anyone. Damien was innocent, and, after all this time, Duke still hadn’t come up with a way to prove it. It ate at him.

“Nobody ever said life was fair,” he told her in a stoic voice.

Susan didn’t have the opportunity to comment on his response. Her mother had suddenly decided to swoop down on them. More specifically, on Duke.

“Duke Colton, what a lovely surprise,” Bonnie Gene declared, slipping her arm through the rancher’s. “So nice of you to come. Such a shame about poor Miranda.” The next moment, she brightened and flashed her thousand-watt smile at him. “You are coming to the reception, aren’t you?” she asked as if it was a given, not a question.

Duke had had no intentions of coming to the reception. He still wasn’t sure what had prompted him to come to the funeral in the first place. Maybe it had been the expression he’d seen on Susan’s face. Maybe, by being here, he’d thought to ease her burden just a little. He really didn’t know.

He’d slipped into the last pew in the church, left before the mourners had begun to file out and had stood apart, watching the ceremony at the graveside. Had there been another way out of the cemetery, he would have used that and slipped out as quietly as he had come in.

Just his luck to have bumped into Susan and her family. Especially her mother, who had the gift of gab and seemed intent on sharing that gift with every living human being with ears who crossed her path.

He cleared his throat again, stalling and looking for the right words. “Well, I—”

He got no further than that.

Sensing a negative answer coming, Bonnie Gene headed it off at the pass as only she could: with verve and charm. And fast talk.

“But of course you’re coming. My Donald oversaw most of the preparations.” She glanced toward her husband, giving him an approving nod. “As a matter of fact, he insisted on it, didn’t you, dear?” she asked, turning her smile on her husband as if that was the way to draw out a hint of confirmation from him.

“I—”

Donald Kelley only managed to get out one word less than Duke before Bonnie Gene hijacked the conversation again.

Because of the solemnity of the occasion, Bonnie Gene was wearing her shoulder-length dark-brown hair up. She still retained the deep, rich color without the aid of any enhancements that came out of a box and required rubber gloves and a timer, and she looked approximately fifteen years younger than the sixty-four years that her birth certificate testified she was—and she knew it. Retirement and quilting bees were not even remotely in her future.

Turning her face up to Duke’s—separated by a distance of mere inches, she all but purred, “You see why you have to come, don’t you, Duke?”

It was as clear as mud to him. “Well, ma’am—not really.” Duke made the disclaimer quickly before the woman could shut him down again.

The smile on her lips was gently indulgent as she momentarily directed her attention to her husband. “Donald is his own number-one fan when it comes to his cooking. He’s prepared enough food to feed three armies today,” she confided, “and whatever the guests don’t eat, he will.” Detaching herself from Duke for a second, she patted her husband’s protruding abdomen affectionately. “I don’t want my man getting any bigger than he already is.”

Dropping her hand before Donald had a chance to swat it away, she reattached herself to Duke. “So the more people who attend the reception, the better for my husband’s health.” Bonnie Gene paused, confident that she had won. It was only for form’s sake—she knew men liked to feel in control—that she pressed. “You will come, won’t you?”

It surprised her that the man seemed to stubbornly hold his ground. “I really—”

She sublimated a frown, keeping her beguiling smile in place. Bonnie Gene was determined that Duke wasn’t going to turn her down. She was convinced she’d seen something in the rancher’s eyes in that unguarded moment when she’d caught him looking at her daughter.

Moreover, she’d seen the way Susan came to attention the moment her daughter saw Duke approaching. If that wasn’t attraction, then she surely didn’t know the meaning of the word.

And if there was attraction between her daughter and this stoic hunk of a man, well, that certainly was good enough for her. This could be the breakthrough she’d been hoping for. Time had a way of flying by and Susan was already twenty-five.

Bonnie Gene was nothing if not an enthusiastic supporter of her children, especially if she saw a chance to dust off her matchmaking skills.

“Oh, I know what the problem is,” she declared, as if she’d suddenly been the recipient of tongues of fire and all the world’s knowledge had been laid at her feet. “You’re not sure of the way to our place.” She turned to look at her daughter as if she had just now thought of the idea. “Susan, ride back with Duke so you can give him proper directions.”

Looking over her youngest daughter’s head, she saw that Linc was heading in their direction and his eyes appeared to be focused on Duke.

Fairly certain that Susan wouldn’t welcome the interaction with her overbearing friend right now, Bonnie Gene reacted accordingly. Slipping her arms from around Duke’s, she all but thrust Susan into the space she’d vacated.

“Off with you now,” Bonnie Gene instructed, putting a hand to both of their backs and pushing them toward the exit. “Don’t worry, your father and I will be right behind you,” she called out.

Without thinking, Susan went on holding Duke’s arm until they left the cemetery.

He made no move to uncouple himself and when she voluntarily withdrew her hold on him, he found that he rather missed the physical connection.

“I’m sorry about that,” Susan apologized, falling into step beside him.

He assumed she was apologizing for her mother since there was nothing else he could think of that required an apology.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he replied. “Your mother was just being helpful.”

Susan laughed. She had no idea that the straightforward rancher could be so polite. She didn’t think he had it in him.

Learn something every day.

“No, she was just being Bonnie Gene. If you’re not careful, Mother can railroad you into doing all sorts of things and make you believe it was your idea to begin with.” There was a fondness in her voice as she described her mother’s flaw. “She thinks it’s her duty to take charge of everything and everyone around her. If she’d lived a hundred and fifty years ago, she would have probably made a fantastic Civil War general.”

Duke inclined his head as they continued walking. “Your mother’s a fine woman.”

“No argument there. But my point is,” Susan emphasized, “you have to act fast to get away if you don’t want to get shanghaied into doing whatever it is she has planned.”

“Eating something your dad’s made doesn’t exactly sound like a hardship to me.” Donald Kelley’s reputation as a chef was known throughout the state, not just the town.

Susan didn’t want Duke to be disappointed. “Actually, I made a lot of it.”

His eyes met hers for a brief moment. She couldn’t for the life of her fathom what he was thinking. The man had to be a stunning poker player. “Doesn’t sound bad, either.”

The simple compliment, delivered without any fanfare, had Susan warming inside and struggling to tamp down what she felt had to be a creeping blush on the outside. Pressing her lips together, she murmured, “Well, I hope you won’t be disappointed.”

“Don’t plan on being,” he told her. Duke nodded toward the vehicle he’d left parked at the end of the lot. “Hope you don’t mind riding in a truck, seeing as how you’re probably used to gallivanting around in those fancy cars.”

When it came down to matching dollar for dollar, the Coltons were probably richer than the Kelleys, but despite his distant ties to the present sitting president, Joseph Colton, Darius Colton didn’t believe in throwing money away for show. That included buying fancy cars for his sons.

Duke was referring to Linc’s sports car, Susan thought. He had to be because her own car was a rather bland sedan with more than a few miles and years on it. But it was a reliable vehicle that got her where she had to go and that was all that ultimately mattered to her.

“I like trucks,” she told him, looking at his. “They’re dependable.”

In response, Susan thought she saw a small smile flirt with Duke’s mouth before disappearing again. And then he shrugged a bit self-consciously.

“If I’d known I’d be heading out to your place, I would’ve washed it first,” he told her.

“Dirt’s just a sign left behind by hard work,” she said philosophically as she approached the passenger side of the vehicle.

Duke opened the door for her, then helped her up into the cab. She was acutely aware of his hands on her waist, giving her a small boost so that she could avoid any embarrassing mishap, given that she was wearing a black dress and high heels.

A tingle danced through her.

This wasn’t the time or place to feel things like that, she chided herself. She’d just buried her best friend. This was a time for mourning, not for reacting to the touch of a man who most likely wasn’t even aware that he had touched her.

Duke caught himself staring for a second. Staring at the neat little rear that Susan Kelley had. Funerals weren’t the time and cemeteries weren’t the place to entertain the kind of thoughts that were now going through his head.

But there they were anyway, taking up space, coloring the situation.

Maybe, despite the best of intentions, he shouldn’t have shown up at the funeral, he silently told himself.

Too late now, Duke thought as he got into the driver’s seat and started up the truck. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to stay long at the reception.

Chapter 4

“Take the next turn to the—”

There was no GPS in Duke’s truck because he hated the idea of being told where to turn and, essentially, how to drive by some disembodied female voice. He’d been driving around, relying on gut instincts and keen observation, for more years than were legally allowed.

For the last ten minutes he’d patiently listened to Susan issuing instructions and coming very close to mimicking a GPS.

Enough was enough. He could go the rest of the way to the Kelleys’ house without having every bend in the road narrated.

“You can stop giving me directions,” he told her as politely as he could manage. “I know how to get to your place.”

She’d suspected as much, which was why she’d been surprised when he’d allowed her to come along to guide him to the big house in the first place.

“If you didn’t need directions, what am I doing in your truck? “ she asked him.

He spared Susan a glance before looking back at the road. “Sitting.”

Very funny. But at least this meant he had a sense of humor. Sort of. “Besides that.”

Duke shrugged, keeping his eyes on the desolate road ahead of him. “Seemed easier than trying to argue with your mother.”

She laughed. The man was obviously a fast learner as well. “You have a point.”

Since she agreed with him, Duke saw no reason to comment any further. Several minutes evaporated with no exchange being made between them. The expanding silence embraced them like a tomb.

Finally, Susan couldn’t take it any more. “Don’t talk much, do you? “

He continued looking straight ahead. The road was desolate but there was no telling when a stray animal could come running out.

“Nope.”

Obviously, he was feeling uncomfortable in her company. If her mother, ever the matchmaker, hadn’t orchestrated this, he wouldn’t even be here, feeling awkward like this, Susan thought. What had her mother been thinking?

“I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable,” she apologized to him.

Duke spared her another glance. His brow furrowed, echoing his confusion. “What makes you think I’m uncomfortable?”

“Because you’re not talking.” It certainly didn’t take a rocket scientist to come to that conclusion, she thought.

Duke made a short, dismissive noise. Discomfort had nothing to do with his silence. He just believed in an economy of words and in not talking unless he had something to say. “I don’t do small talk.”

She was of the opinion that everyone did small talk, but she wasn’t about to get into a dispute over it. “Okay,” she acknowledged. “Then say something earth-shattering.”

For a moment, he said nothing at all. Then, because she was obviously not about to let the subject drop, he asked, “You always chatter like that?”

Blowing out a breath, she gave him an honest answer. “Only when I’m uncomfortable or nervous.”

“Which is it?”

Again, she couldn’t be anything but honest, even though she knew that if her mother was here right now, Bonnie Gene would be rolling her eyes at the lack of feminine wiles she was displaying. But playing games, especially coy ones, had never been her thing. “Both right now.”

Despite the fact that he had asked, her answer surprised him. “I make you nervous?”

He did, but oddly enough, in a good way. Rather than say yes, she gave him half an answer. “Silence makes me nervous.”

He nodded toward the dash. “You can turn on the radio.”

She didn’t feel like hearing music right now. Somehow, after the memorial service, it just didn’t seem right. What she wanted was human contact, human interaction.

“I’d rather turn you on—” As her words echoed back at her, Susan’s eyes widened with horror. “I mean, if you could be turned on.” Mortified, she covered her now-flushed face with her hands. “Oh, God, that didn’t come out right, either.”

Despite himself, the corners of his mouth curved a little. Susan looked almost adorable, flustered like that.

“That’s one of the reasons I don’t do small talk.” He eyed her for a second before looking back at the road. “I’d stop if I were you.”

“Right.”

Susan took a breath, trying to regroup and not say anything that would lead to her putting her foot in her mouth again. Even so, she had to say something because the silence really was making her feel restless inside. She reverted back to safe ground: the reason he’d been at the cemetery.

“It was very nice of you to come to the funeral,” she said. “Did you know Miranda well?”

He took another turn, swinging to the right. The Kelley mansion wasn’t far now. “Didn’t know her at all,” he told her.

The answer made no sense to her. “Then why did you come? “

“I know you,” he replied, as if that somehow explained everything.

She was having a hard time understanding his reasons. “And because she was my best friend and meant so much to me, you came?” she asked uncertainly. That was the conclusion his last answer led her to, but it still didn’t make any sense. “Something like that.”

But she and Duke didn’t really know each other, she thought, confused. She knew of him, of course. Duke Colton was the twin brother of the town’s only murderer. He was one of Darius Colton’s boys. Each brother was handsomer than the next. And, of course, there’d been that crush she’d had on him. But she didn’t really know him. And he didn’t know her.

In a town as small as Honey Creek, Montana, spreading gossip was one of the main forms of entertainment and there were plenty of stories to spread about the Coltons, especially since, going back a number of generations, the current president of the United States and Darius Colton were both related to Teddy Colton who’d lived in the early 1900s. To his credit, the distant relationship wasn’t something that the already affluent Darius capitalized on or used to up his stock. He was too busy being blustery and riding his sons to get them to give their personal best each and every day. He expected nothing less.

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