Hell, Josh thought, it was wrong to feel—he didn’t even know what—about Candace.

Unsettled was as good a word as any, he decided as he sat in his truck, engine idling, pondering which way to turn.

He wasn’t used to a beautiful woman being off-limits for any reason other than marriage. And Candace Thompson was definitely beautiful. If not for her history with his family, he would already have done things with her that would make a grown man blush.

Instead, he wasn’t supposed to see her, talk to her…even think about wanting her.

He damn sure wasn’t supposed to help her change a flat tire, then go home with her, bandage her scrapes and touch her in a way that brought those soft, erotic whimpers from her, as he had tonight.

Clutching the steering wheel tightly, he turned away from Candace, toward Tulsa. A night on the town, too much to drink—and, if he did it right, come tomorrow morning, he wouldn’t remember a damn thing about tonight.

Right?

The Trouble with Josh
Marilyn Pappano

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARILYN PAPPANO

brings impeccable credentials to her career—a lifelong habit of gazing out windows, not paying attention in class, daydreaming and spinning tales for her own entertainment. The sale of her first book brought great relief to her family, proving that she wasn’t crazy but was, instead, creative. Since then she’s sold more than forty books to various publishers and even a film production company.

She writes in an office nestled among the oaks that surround her country home. In winter she stays inside with her husband and their four dogs, and in summer she spends her free time mowing the yard that never stops growing and daydreams about grass that never gets taller than two inches. You can write to her at P.O. Box 643, Sapulpa, OK, 74067-0643.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Chapter One

Visit all fifty states:

  Mississippi

  Arkansas

  Oklahoma

In the months since she’d almost died, Candace Thompson had made a list of all the things she wanted to do while she still had a chance. It filled six pages on a dog-eared legal pad and wasn’t in any particular order, except in her mind. She had crossed off plenty of them—things like Spend a week on the beach and Apologize to Craig, whom she’d dumped her senior year in high school, for the manner in which she’d done it.

There were still plenty to be crossed off—another thirty or forty years’ worth, by her reckoning—but the time had come to take care of the number-one priority on the list: Make amends with Natalie.

Nothing like setting her goals too high. It would be easier, she suspected, to sprout wings and fly to the moon, but she had to try. She’d made promises—to God, to the doctors, to herself. She had to do her best to keep them.

It had taken some effort, but she’d finally located her former best friend, living on a ranch outside Hickory Bluff, Oklahoma. She’d had the address and phone number for five months now and had done nothing with them. Forgiveness of this magnitude wasn’t something that could be asked for over the phone, and doing it by mail struck her as cowardly—too easy, too impersonal.

Hey, no one had said all the things on the list would be pleasant or fun. Some were supposed to hurt, to require guts and courage and looking people in the eye.

This was definitely one of those.

She’d arrived in Hickory Bluff nearly twenty-four hours earlier, after taking the scenic route from Atlanta, and had spent the time getting settled. In planning the trip, she’d discovered there wasn’t a motel in town, but there was an RV park at a lake two miles north. Since she’d recently come into possession of a fairly comfortable motor home, she’d reserved a space, much to the amusement of the campground owner—obviously October wasn’t a busy period for them. Once she’d settled in at the park, she sweet-talked a friendly guy named Rick at the nearest car rental agency into delivering a car to her.

And she’d found out exactly where this ranch of Natalie’s was. She was all set.

Except that she’d been sitting at this intersection of two dirt roads for more than ten minutes and couldn’t bring herself to go on.

Natalie wasn’t going to be happy to see her, and Candace couldn’t blame her. If the situation were reversed, she would wish Natalie off the face of the earth. It would be a cold day in hell before she would give even scant consideration to forgiving her. Since Natalie was sure to feel the same way, and Candace had come all the way here, maybe she could give herself credit for trying, scratch it off her list and go on to the next goal.

But that would be cheating. No surprise there. She’d been a cheat and a user and a manipulator all her life. No one who truly knew her expected honesty from her.

It was a pathetic excuse for a human being who couldn’t be honest with herself.

Drawing a deep breath, she checked the crossroad in both directions, even though not one car had passed in the minutes she’d been sitting there. It took a major effort to press the accelerator down, another major effort to not turn right or left to avoid the destination straight ahead.

She kept her speed down—because she didn’t want gravel flying up to damage the rental car, and because Rick the friendly rental agent had gone to some trouble to get her a convertible and she didn’t want to show up at Natalie’s all dusty. Not because she was trying to delay her arrival at the ranch.

The road ran straight and true with little to see on either side—open grassland and woods, an occasional cluster of buildings. She couldn’t imagine Natalie voluntarily settling down someplace like this…but a lot of her choices had been taken away from her. Her career, her reputation, her relationship with her father—none of it had survived Candace.

Up ahead something appeared in the road. She squinted behind her sunglasses to bring it into focus. Large, shaggy, brown and white—cows. A whole herd of them. Just sort of milling around on the road.

She slowed to a snail’s pace, then stopped about ten feet from the nearest bovine. Most of them appeared taller than her low-slung little sports car, and they seemed to have zero interest in her. The ones that were munching grass at the sides of the road continued to munch, and the ones that were just standing around blocking her way continued to stand and block.

She was reaching to tap the horn when a voice from someplace much too close behind her said, “I wouldn’t advise honking the horn. They tend to associate that with feed and come running.”

As she twisted in the seat to see who’d spoken, a cowboy reined in his very large horse next to the driver’s door. He wore jeans, a T-shirt and scruffy boots, along with a cowboy hat that shaded his face. He was dusty and sweaty…and cute. Very definitely cute. His hair was brown, his eyes the same color and crinkled at the corners. His smile was crooked and so was his nose, and the hands that held the reins were big and powerful.

She had a thing about hands…and power.

“Sorry about the delay,” he went on. “Neighbor’s buffalo took down a section of fence, and the dumb animals decided they’d rather eat the grass over here.”

She managed what she hoped was a friendly smile. “Well, you know what they say. The grass is always greener on the other side.”

“Not that it matters much to the cows.” He shifted in the saddle with a creak of leather. “You’re not from around here.”

“Aw, what gave me away?” The fact that she was lacking that luscious, slow-lazy-day accent of his? Or maybe that she was wearing sandals instead of Justins, a ball cap instead of a Stetson, and linen pants instead of Wranglers?

“Let’s start with the fact that I’ve lived my entire life here and never run into you,” he said with a grin. “You wander off the highway and get lost?”

“No. I’m just taking a drive.” No doubt, knowing everybody’s business was the small-town, country-folk way, but she kept hers to herself. She looked at the cows. “Do you leave them here until they’ve eaten their fill and wander back to the right side of the fence?”

“No,” he drawled, then lifted one hand in a gesture too lazy to be considered a wave.

She turned just as another very cute cowboy on another great big horse came through the trees. He tipped his head in greeting, then began herding the cows over the downed wire and into the pasture, with the help of one of the biggest dogs she’d ever seen. Damn, all the creatures around here were big enough to intimidate her—especially the men.

Understandable, since she hadn’t gotten close to one who wasn’t wearing a stethoscope around his neck in…oh, eleven months.

“Don’t you need to help?” she asked.

“Nah. The dog does most of the work.”

It looked to her as if the cowboy and the dog were sharing the job equally, but she wasn’t going to argue. “I guess a dog provides cheap labor on a ranch. He can’t ask for a raise, doesn’t get drunk and fail to show up for work, can’t talk back….”

“Give ’im a little chow, and he’s happy,” he said with a grin. “Ol’ Red there is extra cheap—he belongs to our neighbor, so we don’t even have to feed him. He just likes working cattle.”

“Red?” she echoed. “He’s black as night.”

“You noticed.” He didn’t offer an explanation as the last couple of cows crossed the road. “Well, I guess you can go on your way now.”

She glanced ahead and smiled weakly. “I guess I can.”

“Enjoy your drive.”

“I will.” She pulled forward a few feet, then stopped. “Would you happen to know if there’s anyplace around here where I could get a cold beer and a greasy burger for supper tonight?”

“You can have one or the other, but not at the same time. For a greasy burger, try the Dairy Delight in town. For a cold beer…” He removed his hat with one hand, shoved the other through his hair, then reseated the hat. Damned cute, indeed. “I tend to do my drinking at Frenchy’s. It’s about a mile north of town. You can’t miss it.” He made a clicking sound with his tongue, and the horse started around the car and toward the broken fence. About halfway there, he looked back at her with a grin and a wink. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Maybe you will.” Candace was smiling as she drove away. A handsome cowboy who was either single or didn’t care that he wasn’t…what more could a woman on a quest ask for?

But her smile faded. Although there actually was a mention of a cowboy on her list—Pick up a handsome cowboy/soldier/cop/jock—that wasn’t her priority right now.

Natalie was.

According to her calculations, the ranch should be just a short distance ahead…and sure enough, long before she was ready to reach it, there it was—a large house, a barn and some other stuff out back, Natalie’s classic old Mustang parked in the drive.

Candace stopped at the end of the driveway and tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t. Her chest hurt. Her stomach hurt. Even her fingers hurt from clenching the steering wheel so tightly.

She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t. She didn’t care if she’d driven all this way, didn’t care if she was letting herself down. The only thing that mattered was that she could not face Natalie. Not now.

Maybe not ever.

“Have you ever met a pretty woman you didn’t flirt with?”

Josh Rawlins glanced up as his half brother, Tate, swung to the ground beside him. They would do a temporary fix on the fence for now, then come back out later to do it right. He would rather do damn near anything than fix barbed wire. It was his least favorite job on the ranch.

No, that wasn’t quite true. The job he hated most was digging post holes for barbed-wire fences. It was a general rule in Oklahoma that wherever you dug, you were bound to hit rock. Sometimes it seemed as if the entire ranch was nothing but a foot of dirt on top of one huge slab of sandstone.

“I didn’t flirt with your wife,” he pointed out at last, then grinned. “I like women, and they like me.”

“She didn’t look like your type.”

Josh scoffed. Pretty, blond, blue eyes and a nice body. What could possibly be not his type? “All women are my type, Pop.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“J.T. does.”

“He calls me Papa, and he’s allowed. You’re not.”

As they got to work, Josh laughed at the scowl accompanying the last words. “What’re you going to do? Give me a whippin’?”

“I’ve done it before. I’ve also saved you from more than a few of them. Don’t antagonize me or I won’t do it again.”

“Well, hell, big brother, you haven’t been to a bar with me since you got married. If somebody decides to kick my ass, you’re not gonna be there to stop ’em anyway.”

Tate shook his head. “You know, Mom and I keep hoping that at some point, you’ll outgrow this habit of fighting in bars and getting thrown in jail.”

“Hey, I haven’t been arrested in a year, and that last time wasn’t my fault. She told me she didn’t want to leave with that guy.”

Tate gave him a dry look as he spliced two strands of wire together. “She was underage, and that ‘guy’ was her father. You’re lucky all they did was lock you up until you were sober.”

“She looked a lot older. Even the sheriff thought so.” Josh faked a sorrowful look. “It’s a sad day when a man has to ask a woman in a bar for ID to find out how old she is.”

“Then again, a man could try meeting a woman someplace other than a bar.”

Josh cheerfully shook his head. “Sorry, but we’re fresh out of pesky reporters wanting to write about the old man.” That was how Tate had met his wife. Retired senator Boyd Chaney had hired Natalie to write his biography, and had required that she gain the cooperation of his six ex-wives and nine children, including the illegitimate son he’d never recognized—Josh himself. There had been a little passing around of identities, a quick trip out of town for Josh and his mother, plenty of lies and deception and, ultimately, a happy ending. Tate and Natalie had been married four years now and had a little boy, J.T.

But how many times was something like that likely to happen? Maybe once in a blue moon? Which meant Josh was out of luck. He had to settle for meeting women the old-fashioned way…not that he was looking to settle down just yet. He figured one of these days the carousing would stop being fun, and then he would know it was time to give it up. To pick one woman, get married and start acting respectable, like Tate.

Of course, Tate had been acting respectable ever since he was eighteen, when his girlfriend had handed their newborn son, Jordan, to him, then walked out of their lives.

And Josh hadn’t behaved respectably in…well, ever. He liked being the disreputable Rawlins, the one with plenty of wild oats to sow, the impulsive one, the fun one. He wasn’t in any rush to give that up.

“You have any plans for this evening?” Tate asked.

Other than dates when he was seeing someone in particular, Josh had a tendency to not make plans. He was single, his own boss—at least, when Tate wasn’t giving him orders—and he had no responsibilities outside his family. He was free to go where he wanted when he wanted. Why mess it up with plans?

But when he opened his mouth to say no as he snugged the last broken strands together to splice, the wrong words came out. “I thought I might drop by Frenchy’s—have a beer and play a game or two of pool.”

“Gee, what made me think that’s where you’d be?” Tate teased. “Must have been you telling the pretty woman it was a good place for a cold beer. Maybe a good place to have a dance or two, pick up someone like…hmm, maybe her. At least this one’s definitely past the age of consent.”

Josh scowled at him as he swung into the saddle. It would serve Tate right if Josh proved him wrong and showed up for supper tonight just like he did most other nights, then went home—alone. Though he wasn’t quite sure how his sleeping alone tonight while Tate snuggled up with his wife would prove anything.

“Why don’t you go on and start checking the fence?” Tate suggested. “I’ll take care of this, then meet you back at the house for lunch.”

Josh didn’t argue. He just nodded in agreement, then turned his gelding north. He’d lived all but the first few years of his life on this ranch, and he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. It hadn’t been an easy life to start. Lucinda had had her hands full trying to run the ranch and raise two boys without much help from their fathers. By the time Tate had turned fifteen, he’d put in a full day at school, plus another on the ranch, and he’d still managed to find time to play football and baseball and get his girlfriend pregnant.

Josh had skipped the sports, other than a little rodeoing, and the pregnant girlfriend, thank God, but other than that, his life had been pretty much the same. It wasn’t so bad now. The days were still long, the work still hard, but their mom helped out, and when Tate’s son, Jordan, came home from college on weekends, he did more than his share. Even Natalie—the best example of a city girl Josh had ever known—was more than willing to saddle up or mend a fence when necessary.

They didn’t have the biggest spread around, but it was about as big as they could handle, and big enough to provide them with a comfortable living. They would never get rich, but, hell, that had never been a priority in their lives. Tate had wanted to be a good father to Jordan, hang on to the land, stay close to his mother and brother, and someday expand his own family, and he’d done that. Josh just wanted to maintain the status quo—live on and work the ranch, see his family every day and have a good time. He’d enjoyed the first thirty-three years of his life, and he intended to enjoy the rest of it just as much.

Though the sun was shining brightly overhead, occasionally there was a chill in the breeze as it shifted directions. October in Oklahoma couldn’t be beat anytime, anywhere, in his opinion. The hundred-degree-plus temperatures of August and often September were gone, the leaves were turning red and gold, and even the air smelled sweeter. The sky was a clear blue this morning, with only a few thin clouds that one good wind would blow into nothing but fluff, and the fragrant scent of wood smoke from the north indicated that their neighbors were burning the timber they’d bulldozed last spring.

That was a job he had to do soon—after putting it off for eight years, he’d finally cleared out some trees around his house—but he was waiting for the nights to get colder. He planned to pick some weekend when Jordan and Michaela Scott, his nephew’s best friend and their neighbor, were home from college, and the two families could get together for a wiener roast. There wasn’t much better than a cold night, a blazing fire, hot dogs, roasted marshmallows and a pretty woman.

The horse maneuvered through timber and over sandstone without much guidance from Josh, who checked the five strands of barbed wire that ran from post to post. This was a mindless job—one that he liked, of course. He was good at mindless tasks because his thoughts certainly liked to wander. For a moment he let them wander to the stranger.

Where was she from? What had brought her here? And why had she chosen their little dirt road for a drive? He was pretty sure she wasn’t visiting anyone locally—in a town like Hickory Bluff, news like that got around—and that meant she wasn’t staying locally since the nearest motel was twenty miles away in Dixon. Well, there was that old campground up at the lake—though not much of a campground and not much of a lake. Besides, she sure didn’t look the camping type. Or the small-town type. Definitely not the country type.

That left the here-for-a-day-or-two-then-gone type. Most definitely his type.

The sun was straight up in the sky when he got back to the barn. Natalie was standing at the corral fence, her arm around J.T.’s middle as he balanced on the top rail. She looked over her shoulder and smiled in greeting. Long-legged, red-haired and blue-eyed, she was exactly the sort of woman Tate had always been a sucker for. Looks aside, she was also sweet, generous, kind, and loved Jordan as if he were her own. If Josh knew his brother, he’d started falling in love with her the moment they’d met—and hell, if Tate hadn’t, maybe Josh would have.

“Hey, Uncle Josh!” With Natalie’s help, J.T. scrambled to the ground, then ran over, arms extended. Josh swung him onto his hip. “Look at me! I’m a nastronaut!”

“That’s pretty cool, J.T. Are you going off in a spaceship?”

The boy bobbed his head as he said, “Nooo, silly. This is for ’alloween. I’m jus’ pretendin’.”

“Well, good, because I’d miss you if you went off into space.”

J.T. wriggled out of his plastic spaceman’s helmet, leaving his hair standing on end. Except for the reddish tint to his hair, courtesy of his mother, he looked remarkably like Jordan had at his age—who, according to the family album, had looked remarkably like Tate. Occasionally Josh wondered if he would see the same resemblance in his kids someday…but only occasionally. Once every few years.

“What’re you gonna be for ’alloween?” J.T. asked.

Josh pretended to think about it as he walked over to the fence where Tate had joined Natalie. “How about if I go as a cowboy?”

“Uncle Josh, you are a cowboy. You gotta go as somethin’ you ain’t.”

“There’s a whole world of possibilities,” Josh murmured as J.T. made a leap into his father’s arms. “Hey, Natalie, Tate.”

“Hey, Josh,” his sister-in-law replied. “We were wondering if you’d be joining us for lunch. It’d be a shame if you missed it, considering I’ve fixed ribs, baked beans and the last of the Silver Queen corn from your mom’s freezer, along with a chocolate cake for dessert.”

As they started toward the house, J.T. hitching a ride on Tate’s shoulders, Josh slid his arm around Natalie. “You know I love your ribs—and the rest of you ain’t too bad,” he teased. “There’s not much that could drag me away from my favorite food fixed by my favorite sister-in-law.”

“How about a pretty blonde in a silver convertible?”

Josh gave both her and Tate a pitying look. “Your lives must be disgustingly boring if you find my being sociable with a stranger passing through worthy of discussion. Yes, she was blond, she was pretty, and she was driving a convertible. And she has about as much significance in my day as that hawk flying up there.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Poor old married folk.”

Natalie elbowed him for that last remark. “One of these days, Josh, you’re going to fall in love and get married, and then you’ll see what you’ve been missing.”

“Maybe…when I’ve done all there is to do, seen all there is to see, and life no longer has meaning.” Opening the screen door, he held it for them while they went inside, then followed them into a kitchen filled with incredible aromas. His mother was a decent cook, though she didn’t really like the fuss, and Jordan excelled at breakfasts and desserts, but Natalie’s every effort was outstanding, and she enjoyed it, too. The Rawlins family had never eaten so well until she came into their lives.

He washed up in the laundry room sink while Tate took J.T. to the bathroom to clean up and change out of his astronaut costume. Just as Josh reached for a towel, the doorbell rang, followed by Natalie’s call. “Can you get that, Josh?”

Cutting through the dining room, he dried his hands, then tossed the towel over one shoulder as he reached the door. The bell rang again an instant before he pulled it open. “Well, well.”

Standing there was the pretty blonde, looking uneasy and edgy. Out of the car, he could see that she was a half foot shorter than him, slender, with hints of curves in the right places. The ball cap was gone, revealing her very short hair, shorter even than his own. She wore linen trousers that were pressed and creased, a long-sleeved white shirt, open at the neck and sleeves rolled halfway to her elbows, and shoes that gave her a few inches of extra height—probably a casual look where she came from, but not in Hickory Bluff.

When she didn’t speak but continued to give him a look that was at the same time blank and startled, he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. “Let me guess. You were so dazzled by my charm and boyish good looks that you came back for more.”

“I…I— You—” She drew a deep breath. “I’m looking for Natalie Rawlins. Is she here?”

“Yes, she is, but trust me, darlin’, I’m more your type.” With a grin, he leaned back and called over his shoulder, “Yo, Nat, it’s for you.”

“Who is it?” Natalie called back, and he looked questioningly at the blonde.

Her mouth worked a time or two without producing a sound, then she took another of those deep breaths. “Tell her….” Pitching her voice loud enough to carry, she said, “It’s me, Natalie…Candace.”

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the house, making Candace flinch inside and out. That was not a good sign. In fact, that was a get-in-the-car-and-get-the-hell-out-of-town sign, or the next breakable might be aimed at her. She wanted nothing more than to run away, wanted it with an intensity that surprised her, but her feet wouldn’t move. She couldn’t do anything but stand there and indulge in a mild panic.

Was the flirtatious cowboy the Rawlins from whom Natalie had gotten her new name? Had Candace been thinking mildly lustful thoughts about her former friend’s husband, for heaven’s sake? And what kind of idiot was she, to think that Natalie might ever offer the remotest hint of forgiveness?

The cowboy was looking from her to the back of the house, and the grin was gone. No doubt she’d heard her last friendly word from him. Once he realized who she was, she’d be lucky if he didn’t run her out of town on a rail, or tar and feather her, or whatever they did to unwelcome varmints in these parts.

As footsteps slowly approached the door, she caught her breath. This was it. The moment she’d been anticipating, dreading, visualizing. She’d imagined it a thousand times, with every outcome possible. Nine hundred ninety-nine of them had ended badly.

Finally her feet obeyed, took a step away from the door and toward the driveway, but it was too late. The woman she’d adored, loved, envied, idolized and destroyed appeared in the doorway next to the cowboy, and she was looking at Candace with quiet loathing.

She hadn’t changed much in the five-plus years since Candace had last seen her. Her hair was still long, curling wildly, still the color of new copper, and her skin was still pale and creamy smooth. The clothes were different—faded jeans, scuffed cowboy boots, a chambray shirt—but she was still elegant. Still beautiful. And she still hated Candace.

“What do you want?”

Candace had imagined the question a hundred times and formulated as many answers. She’d been ready. But the instant Natalie had spoken, all the eloquent answers flew right out of Candace’s head. All she could do was stammer and sputter. “I…I want— I’d like—” She breathed, then exhaled the words in a rush. “Can we talk?”

“No.” Reaching past the cowboy, Natalie gripped the door and started to swing it shut.

“Please, Natalie—”

“You couldn’t possibly say anything that would interest me. Get the hell off our property and don’t—”

“Mama said a bad word!”

Candace’s gaze slid past Natalie. The other cowboy, the one who’d worked alongside the dog while the flirt flirted, came to join them, carrying a small child. Though the boy’s hair was auburn, there was no denying the resemblance between him and the man, which suggested he was Natalie’s cowboy, which meant the other wasn’t. It was a selfish thing to consider at the moment, but Candace couldn’t help it. She was relieved.

The second man slid his free arm around Natalie’s waist and hugged her close. “What’s going on, babe?”

Pale and steely-eyed, Natalie replied, “Nothing. She was just leaving.”

Candace cleared her throat. “Natalie, please… I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me, but please, just listen to what I came to say.”

“Listen to you lie, twist the facts and manipulate the details? I don’t think so.”

She started to close the door again, and Candace blurted out, “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am—”

The door closed with a quiet click.

Candace stood there a long time, staring at the door. She wanted to ring the bell again and apologize for disturbing them. She wanted to climb in her car and drive as far away and as fast as she could. She wanted to beg for just a moment of Natalie’s time.

When her lungs began to burn, she finally remembered to breathe, a quick soft gasp that sounded unnervingly close to a sob. Of course it wasn’t. Candace Thompson was tough, ambitious, self-centered. She didn’t cry. She made other people do it. She had cried only twice that she could recall in the past thirty years, the first when she’d thought she was going to die the way she’d lived—alone and unloved—the second, soon after. She hadn’t been able to name a single soul who would mourn her passing, and that had sent her into mourning.

Once she forced her feet to move, she hurried down the steps, then covered the ground to the car in a dozen long strides. She didn’t glance at the house as she backed around an ancient oak, then headed down the driveway. She didn’t wonder if they watched through the blinds with relief that she was leaving.

By the time she’d reached the intersection with the first paved highway, her breathing was relatively normal. She forced her jaw to relax, then eased her two-fisted grip on the steering wheel. She’d tried and failed. End of story, right? So she could mark that goal off her list and go on to the dozens of goals that remained. Right?

Right.

With an overwhelming relief rushing over her, she checked for traffic, then pulled onto the highway. She didn’t intend to waste any time. She would contact the accommodating rental car guy and make arrangements to turn in the car this afternoon, get the RV ready and hit the road first thing in the morning. She had places to go and things to do. She had a life to live. She’d wasted most of the thirty-eight years she’d been given, but she intended to make the next thirty-eight—or however many she had left—worthwhile.

The two-lane highway led her east into Hickory Bluff. The smallest place she’d ever lived had more than 175,000 residents. She wasn’t sure if Hickory Bluff appealed to her in spite of that, or because of it. According to the sign on the edge of town, it was home to 990 two-legged residents, and probably twenty times that of the big, shaggy four-legged variety.

Nothing about the place was fancy. The buildings downtown were built mostly of native stone, and the houses on the blocks extending out from downtown were plain and functional. Most had porches, even the trailers, which weren’t gathered in a mobile home park as she’d come to expect, but were mixed in with the more permanent structures.

High school athletics seemed to be an important part of the community. The water tower was painted green and gold, with the legend Go, Wildcats! Store windows bore hand-painted cheers, pennants or bumper stickers, and a disproportionate number of the people she’d seen wore green ball caps with the Hickory Bluff High School initials embroidered in gold.

It was a rather shabby, worn, homey town, and if she were staying, she would probably be tempted to write an article about just how homey. If she were still writing.

Once she turned onto the main street, she intended to drive straight through town and to the campground. Instead, she found herself pulling into a parking space in front of Merrill’s, a store that could provide you with a driver’s license to drive to the lake, a fishing license to use while you were there, beer and sandwiches for a late lunch and ice to keep them cold. Through the window she could also see a selection of fussily hand-painted T-shirts, a display of plastic Halloween lawn ornaments and stacked-up cases of motor oil, supporting videotapes for rent. At first glance, it seemed an odd combination of goods and services, but she could remember a time when it would have met every one of her father’s needs, especially the beer.

It was hunger that had made her stop—she’d been too nervous to eat breakfast that morning—along with the desire to avoid one more solitary meal. She’d had enough of those in the past eleven months to last a lifetime.

Norma Sue’s Café was in the middle of the block and was one of only three places to eat in town. The others were the Dairy Delight, great for burgers, according to the obviously some-sort-of-relative-to-Natalie’s-husband charmer, and Pepe Chen’s Mexican and Chinese Buffet, an experience she thought she might be better off skipping.

A cowbell jangled over the café door when she went inside. A few people glanced up, and the waitress behind the counter called, “Have a seat wherever,” but that was the extent of attention. She’d expected a few more curious glances but was grateful to be wrong. She wanted to be with other people, but she didn’t necessarily want their attention. Just seeing other faces, hearing other voices, would be enough.

She’d barely settled in an empty booth when the waitress brought her iced water and a menu. She ordered a chicken salad sandwich and pop, then eyed the mile-high meringues on the pies that filled a display cabinet on the counter. She could turn down candy, ice cream and cake, but a good pie would undermine her best intentions every time. Natalie had once suggested that it was because she associated pies with easier, more innocent times—growing up, holidays, family closeness.

Candace hadn’t told her there’d been nothing easy or innocent about her childhood. There had certainly been no family closeness.

Thinking of Natalie stirred an ache in her chest. She’d known all along what the outcome of this trip would be—had known the odds against her succeeding were overwhelming. Still, someplace deep inside, she’d hoped….

If she left Hickory Bluff tomorrow, there could be no more hope.

Listlessly she pulled the legal pad from her bag. It was wrinkled, torn and stained, but the writing was still legible. To be on the safe side, she’d copied its contents into her journal, but there was something satisfying about this original with its stains, tears and doodles. That neatly written list on heavyweight pristine journal paper could well be nothing more than a someday dream, while this one was being made real, slowly but surely.

But not by giving up after one lousy failure.

She was staring at that failure—Make amends with Natalie—when a shadow fell across the paper. Expecting the waitress, she looked up with a faint smile. Seeing the handsome cowboy, she let it fade.

Without waiting for an invitation, he sat down across from her and leaned forward. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but you’re not welcome here,” he said in a low, cold voice. It was an amazing change—from the appreciative looks, the lazy drawl and the easy charm to this cold, hard hostility. And he didn’t even know her. Just think how much he could hate her if he did.

“What I’m doing is none of your business,” she said, making an enormous effort to keep her voice as well as her hands steady as she turned the legal pad facedown.

“The hell it isn’t! No one comes around here making trouble for my family without making it my business.”

“I’m not making trouble.”

“Natalie says you are. She says you’re a liar, that you’d backstab your own mother to get ahead. She says you’re dishonest, unethical and untrustworthy and that she wishes she’d never met you.”

Candace stared hard at the tabletop to stop the moisture trying to well in her eyes. No surprises there. She’d known of all the challenges and goals she’d set for herself, this would be the most impossible. Natalie wasn’t inclined to feel an ounce of forgiveness, and understandably so. If Candace were in her place, she wouldn’t feel very forgiving, either. But if she could just find it in her heart to listen—not forgive, not forget, just listen….

“Do us all a favor and get the hell out of town. If you set foot on the ranch again, we’ll have you arrested, and if you go near Natalie again, I swear to God, I’ll make you damn sorry.” He delivered his warning in a voice so fierce, with such force behind it, that she had little doubt he meant every word of it. Then he slid to his feet, almost bumping into the waitress.

“Hey, Josh, can I get you—” The waitress broke off, perplexed, to watch him walk away, then slowly shifted her suspicious gaze to Candace. Making no effort to be friendly, the woman set the dishes down with a thud, sloshing pop onto the cardboard back of the legal pad, then walked away.

So was that the kind of influence the Rawlins family held in Hickory Bluff? Candace wondered wearily as she stared at a chicken salad sandwich big enough for three. Their enemies were the town’s enemies? Was the waitress’s loyalty to Josh in particular, or was the entire town likely to turn against Candace if she stayed?

She was feeling perverse enough to find out.

Chapter Two

Supper at the Rawlinses’ house that evening was an unusually somber affair. Natalie was withdrawn, Tate concerned about her, and Josh…. Truth was, Josh was pretty much in the dark. He didn’t know exactly who Candace Thompson was—someone Natalie had once been friends with, whom she now despised, whose name couldn’t even be mentioned at the table without stony silences or, worse, an awful hurt look sliding over Natalie’s features.

But, bottom line, Josh didn’t need to know any details. Rawlinses stuck together. It was how they got through the bad times, and it made the good times that much better. He didn’t need to know what Candace had done. Natalie was family, and her enemy was the family’s enemy.

Too bad her enemy was so damn pretty.

He finished the supper dishes he’d volunteered to wash and dried his hands, then went into the living room. Tate was sitting on the couch, J.T. snoozing on his lap and Natalie curled up against him. She looked as if she were a thousand miles away, in a place too melancholy to bear.

“I…I guess I’ll head on home,” he said.

“See you in the morning,” Tate responded.

Moving closer, Josh gently ruffled J.T.’s hair, then squeezed Natalie’s hand. She didn’t lift her head from Tate’s shoulder but gave him a sad smile.

The night was chilly, making him glad he’d brought a jacket. The sky was dark and clear, the stars so bright that it seemed he could reach up and touch them. He whistled tunelessly as he crossed to his pickup, then headed home. He lived on the south end of the property, a half mile west of the road in a stand of timber. He and Tate had built the house themselves eight years ago, working in their free time. They’d had precious little of it, so the place was plain and purely functional, which suited him just fine. He didn’t spend much time there, and if he ever married and had kids, he would have to build on. Any prettying-up could be done then.

The road that ran between the two houses was little more than two ruts in the grass. Just before it entered the trees, another narrow lane angled off to the left, giving him quick access to the county road through a rickety gate. The main road went straight, then zigzagged through the trees before finally reaching the clearing where the house stood. It was a simple frame house, painted a dark rusty red. The front porch stood only a foot off the ground, so he hadn’t bothered with railings, and he generally ignored the steps centered in front. He parked at the side, stepped directly up onto the porch, then went in.

The place always seemed so quiet compared to Tate’s house—though this evening next door had been an exception. Of course, having a three-year-old in residence made a hell of a difference. It was nice to walk into Tate’s and hear laughter, chattering and singing, to smell scents like food cooking, perfume and other feminine things, to see childish and womanly touches all over.

Just as it was nice to come in here and find the quiet and privacy he expected.

As he settled on the couch, he listened to the messages on the answering machine. Two were from Theresa, the steadiest of the recent women in his life, one just asking for a call, the other inviting him over later in the week. The third was from the wife of one of his buddies. They were going to a concert in Tulsa on Saturday and would he be interested in going along with her cousin, Stacey.

He grimaced. He’d met Stacey before, and while she was gorgeous, her biological clock was ticking loudly, making her eager to get married. Every time he spent even a few minutes with her, he felt lucky to have escaped unharmed—or unhitched.

It was barely eight o’clock. Too early for bed. He turned on the television and flipped through the channels but found nothing that caught his interest. He considered returning Theresa’s call, but figured she’d be busy grading her fifth-graders’ papers. He ate an apple and tried to finish the thriller that had been sitting on the end table since the last time he’d put it down over two weeks ago. Obviously, it wasn’t thrilling enough.

What he needed was a distraction, and where he usually found his distractions was Frenchy’s, the same place he’d recommended to Candace Thompson for a cold beer. What were the odds she would show up after their conversation at Norma Sue’s? What were the odds she was even still in the county?

And so what if she was and she did go to Frenchy’s? That didn’t mean he had to speak to her or anything. For damn sure he didn’t have to stay home and avoid one of his regular hangouts just because she might be there.

He wasted another ten minutes, trying to talk himself out of it, but when he was done, he grabbed his jacket and Stetson and returned to his truck. When he drove through the gate and onto the county road, he turned left, the shortest route to the bar. He looked for the blonde’s car in the parking lot and was satisfied when he didn’t see it. As tension he hadn’t even been aware of drained from his shoulders, he parked and headed for the door.

Frenchy’s wasn’t much—but then, nothing in Hickory Bluff was. The building was long and squat, built of concrete blocks that had been painted red once upon a time, then white and most recently, gray. Of course, most recently was about ten years ago, so patches of all three colors, as well as bare concrete, showed through.

The floor inside was cement, and the interior surface of the blocks was painted black, as if the windowless building hadn’t already been dark enough inside. Booths lined three walls, and the floor space was shared by tables and chairs, pool tables and a dance floor. A bar ran the length of the back wall, and a bandstand took up one end of the building. Frenchy’s offered live music every other weekend, some of it pretty good. The rest of the time they made do with a juke box, and it was pretty good, too.

Josh knew everyone in the place, and said hello a half dozen times on his way to the bar, where the owner was wiping the counter. He wasn’t French, and his name was Otis. Rumor had it that back in his younger days, he’d met a singer in Paris by the name of Genevieve. They’d fallen in love, and he’d come back here to build this place, where he would tend bar and she would provide the entertainment, but she’d never come to join him and he’d never found out why.

One night, when Otis had been drinking away his profits, he’d confided in Josh that the only Paris he’d ever been to was in Texas and that Genevieve was his shrew of an ex-wife who’d given him good reason to leave that great state.

By the time Josh reached the bar, an icy long-neck was waiting for him. “How’s it going, Otis?”

“Can’t complain. It’s a sad commentary on life in Hickory Bluff that you guys keep me busy. ’Course, what can you expect in a town where the only place to go is away?”

“Aw, it’s not as bad as that. You know, most of us—yourself included—live here because we like it.”

“Because we don’t know no better,” Otis retorted as he moved to wait on a customer at the opposite end of the bar.

Josh turned for a look around the room. Some of his buddies were occupied at the two pool tables at the far end, and a half dozen more sat at the big round table they’d claimed for their own. While he was debating which group to join, his gaze settled on Calvin Bridger, alone in a distant booth. He didn’t ask permission to join Cal, since he’d probably say no and Josh would do it, anyway. He just slid onto the bench across from him.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Josh remarked.

Cal took a deep drink from his beer, then scowled at him. “I didn’t ask you to sit down.”

“Good thing I’ve known you all of our worthless lives, or I might think you were being rude. When did you get home?”

“A couple days ago.”

“Where’s Darcy?”

Cal mumbled something and shrugged, then took another long swallow.

The three of them—Josh, Cal and Darcy Hawkins—had gone to school together from kindergarten on. When just about everyone else went out for football, basketball or baseball, Josh and Cal had started rodeoing. Cal had been a lot better at it—had turned it into a career and made a living at it for fifteen years and counting. He’d also married Darcy a few years back, and seemed to be pretty good at that, too.

“You guys staying at your folks’ or hers?” Josh asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Which one?” It made a difference if a person wanted to go visiting, since the Bridger ranch was a few miles west of the Rawlinses’ and the Hawkins place—called the Mansion with a derisive sniff—was on the east side of Hickory Bluff, high atop a hill and looking down on the town just as the Hawkinses had always looked down on its people.

Cal drained his beer and signaled Otis for another, then fixed a hostile stare on Josh. “I’m staying at the ranch. I don’t have a clue in hell where Darcy is. She didn’t want to go to this last rodeo with me. She didn’t want to come home with me. Here lately she doesn’t want to do much of anything with me. Now will you go the hell away and let me have one beer in peace?”

Josh didn’t argue or press for more details. Taking his beer, he stood up, then turned back. “Let me know before you leave.”

Though it wasn’t a question, Cal nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Josh never gave a lot of thought to the state of people’s marriages. Some of his buddies changed wives the way other people traded cars. A few had been married a long time and seemed satisfied with their wives, three kids and a dog. Some swore they’d never get married, and he believed them. Some swore the same, and he didn’t. But Cal and Darcy…damn. They’d been together a long time. If asked, Josh would have said they had the second-best chance at staying together forever. First, of course, went to Tate and Natalie.

Looked like he would have been wrong.

He crossed to the round table, into which some joker had carved The Knights, and pulled up a chair, swinging it around backward to straddle. The conversation was football—the college games played the weekend before and the Wildcat game coming up on Friday. Both Tate and Jordan had been Wildcat stars, both scouted by college teams, and Jordan was attending Oklahoma State University on a football scholarship. For those reasons, people seemed to think that made Josh an authority of some sort. Truthfully, he didn’t know any more about the game than anyone else—and didn’t care as much as most of them. Tossing a football around and risking life and limb against guys twice his size didn’t appeal to him at all.

He’d by far preferred risking his life and limb against bulls ten times his size, he thought with a grin.

He’d finished his first beer and was nursing his second and thinking about asking the pretty brunette at the bar to dance when Dudley Barnes hollered his name from the vicinity of the pool tables. “Rawlins, get your scrawny carcass over here and give me a chance to win back that forty bucks you stole from me last week.”

Shooting pool with Dudley was about the easiest money Josh had ever come by. He could beat him blindfolded and with one hand tied behind his back. There was no challenge to it, but it was something to do. Besides, that pretty brunette taught at Theresa’s school, and Theresa might not take kindly to him paying her any attention.

Crossing to the table, he laid a twenty-dollar bill next to the one already on the edge, then circled to take a cue stick from the rack on the wall. He chalked the tip while Dudley racked the balls, then bent over the table to break.

“How ’bout you lose twenty to me and twenty to my friend?” Dudley suggested.

“Aw, you don’t have any friends,” Josh replied. The cue ball hit with a clean cra-ack and the balls rolled in every direction. He moved to the end of the table and bent over, bracing his hand on the felt.

“I’ve got one, and she’s the prettiest girl in the place. Talks real pretty, too, ’cause she’s from…where was it, honey?”

“Atlanta.” The voice was feminine…and familiar, even though he’d never heard it before that morning and had confidently thought he would never hear it again.

He made his shot, then slowly looked up. It was easy enough to overlook anyone standing beside Dudley. At six foot six and three hundred pounds, he was a big boy. But once Josh’s gaze connected with Candace Thompson, Dudley faded into the background.

She’d changed clothes for slumming at the local honky-tonk, into jeans that clung the way they were meant to and a red button-front shirt. Her boots were brown, thick-soled work boots that hadn’t seen much, if any, work, and she wore a black cowboy hat that was way too big for her head. Seeing that it belonged to Dudley, it was probably too big for everybody’s head.

“Buddy, this is Can—”

Josh interrupted Dudley’s introductions. “We’ve met,” he said rudely, then turned his back on them to make the next two shots.

She waited until he’d straightened again to speak. “Technically, we haven’t. I know your name is Josh because the waitress called you that, but—”

He hit the next ball with more force than he’d intended, but it rolled into the intended pocket, anyway. Then he faced her impassively. “I’m Josh Rawlins. Tate Rawlins’s brother. Natalie Rawlins’s brother-in-law. And you’re Candace Thompson. And that’s all that needs to be said, isn’t it?”

And you’re Candace Thompson. Candace hadn’t known it was possible for someone to put so much pure loathing in the four syllables of her name. No doubt he’d picked that up from Natalie, a fact that sent an ache through her, but she hid it. Instead she coolly watched as he methodically sank ball after ball.

She’d talked herself out of coming here more than once through the afternoon and early evening, but somehow she’d found herself walking through the door, anyway. She’d figured Josh wouldn’t be there, on the chance that she would, but he was the first one she’d seen when she’d come in. Then Dudley had stepped between them, blocking Josh from sight, and she had gratefully accepted his invitation to join him for a drink—something she wouldn’t have done if she’d known he would soon invite Josh over, too.

But she was here, and so was Josh, and what did it matter? Clearly he didn’t intend to talk to her, and she had nothing to say to him. Enlisting his help in gaining access to Natalie was out of the question. Not only would she not ask, but he would surely refuse if she did. And with Natalie between them, that pretty much ruled out anything else.

He finished the game without Dudley even getting close to the table, scooped up the forty dollars and shoved them into his pocket and started away.

“Hey, what about the next game?” Dudley said. “You afraid to play the lady?”

Josh slowly turned and let his brown gaze slide over Candace as if he were taking inventory and coming up short. “What lady?”

Dudley pushed away from the table with surprising speed for a man his size. “That was uncalled for,” he said flatly, his voice empty of good humor. “You owe her an apology.”

“Like hell I do.”

“You sure as hell do. You can give it on your own, or I can help you with it. It’s your choice.”

Josh’s gaze narrowed and turned even colder. “You remember the last time you tried to make me do something I didn’t want to do?”

“You broke my nose.” Dudley jutted out his jaw. “But that ain’t gonna happen this time.”

Tired of the blustering, Candace stepped in front of Dudley and laid her hand on his arm. “You promised me a beer.”

“Right after he gives you an apology.”

“I don’t want an apology. Come on, a drink and a dance, then I have to go home.” She maneuvered him around until he broke eye contact with Josh and finally looked at her. Sweeping off his cowboy hat, she gave him a coaxing smile. “Come on. I haven’t danced in ages.”

After a tense moment he let her pull him around tables to the dance floor, then grudgingly took her in his arms. With one last glare in Josh’s direction, he looked down at her and smiled.

The music was country and slow, and she stumbled over her own feet and Dudley’s only a time or two. There had been a time when she’d danced as naturally as breathing—a time when a lot of things had come naturally to her. She’d taken a great deal for granted…but not anymore.

She wasn’t counting on Dudley to remain silent, and sure enough, around the middle of the song, he asked, “What’s between you and Josh?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on. He’s not usually like that.”

“What’s he usually like?” she asked, though she’d seen a good example that morning, before he’d known who she was.

Dudley was quiet for a moment, then he grinned. “His mother says the trouble with Josh is he likes women…a lot. Trouble for her, because he’s never gonna settle down and give her some more grandchildren. No trouble at all for the women around here. He’s been involved with every pretty woman in a hundred-mile radius. I should have expected that he’d already met you, too.”

“And how many grandchildren does his mother have that she needs more?”

“Two. Jordan’s twenty and the little one’s ’bout three.”

Natalie mothering the three-year-old was an easy enough image to conjure, but a twenty-year-old? When she was only thirty-six herself? Of course, how much mothering did a twenty-year-old need? Candace had been on her own for two years before her twentieth birthday, and she’d done all right.

She’d just been lonely. Alone. Ambitious. Driven. Afraid.

“Have you settled down and given your mother grandchildren?” she asked to keep him from returning to Josh.

His grin was remarkably boyish. “A time or two.”

“For the settling-down or the grandkids?” she asked dryly.

“Two marriages, two divorces, two grandkids. What about you?”

“No marriages, no divorces, no kids.” And no mother around to nag her for babies to spoil.

“You’ve never been married? The men in Atlanta must be blind.”

To the contrary, she thought as the song ended. They just had so many better women to choose from than her.

When the music stopped, she stepped out of his arms. “Thank you for a nice evening.”

“What about that drink?”

She regretfully shook her head. “I’d better skip it and get on home.”

“How long are you going to be around here?”

If the Rawlins family had their way, no longer than it would take to cross the state line. In a weak moment that would be her choice, too—had been her choice that afternoon after seeing Natalie.

But she couldn’t allow herself to be weak. A weak woman couldn’t survive everything she’d been through in the past year. Though she’d often been weak in body, her spirit had been strong, and she had to keep it that way. Living another thirty-eight years depended on it.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Maybe a few days. Maybe a few weeks.”

“Then I’ll see you back here again sometime.”

How long had it been since anyone besides a doctor had wanted to see her again? Too unbearably long.

She smiled at Dudley with real pleasure. “Yeah. You’ll see me again.”

With that she got her suede jacket from the stool where she’d left it, pretended not to notice Josh or the icy stare centered on her back and walked out into the chilly night. As she unlocked the car, she gazed up at the sky, midnight dark and filled with more stars than it was possible to see in Atlanta. She picked out the brightest one, focused hard on it and tried to make a wish, but only one word would form. Please.

It wasn’t particularly articulate for someone who’d earned her living with words, but it pretty much covered everything. Please let Natalie give me a chance. Please let me live a long, healthy life. Please don’t let Josh look at me like that again. Please help me be strong. Please let me have just one friend…and please let Natalie be that friend.

Yep, that one word said it all.

Smiling with a satisfaction she hadn’t felt in far too long, she climbed into the car and headed off through the dark night.

  Dance.

  Have some fun.

  Wish upon a star.

For a brief time the day before, Candace had thought she would be crossing the Arkansas state line around ten this Wednesday morning. Instead, she was enjoying a beautiful fall day in downtown Hickory Bluff. She’d had a late breakfast at Norma Sue’s and had spent more than an hour examining an appealing mix of junk and antiques. She had a shopping list tucked in her purse—mostly groceries, plus an inexpensive lawn chair for enjoying the weather. Patsy Conway, who ran the campground with her husband, Dub, had filled her ear that morning with memories of Octobers as warm as any summer day and as bitter cold as the dead of winter.

Right now the temperature was in the midseventies, the sun was shining brightly, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing out of the northwest. It was so nice that Candace had done her morning meditation outside, sitting cross-legged on an old quilt spread over straw-like grass. She’d finished secure in the knowledge that she’d made the right decision in not running away this morning. One attempt to talk to Natalie didn’t constitute making amends. Hell, it hardly even qualified as trying. She was a journalist, which meant she possessed many qualities. Among the better ones was tenacity.

Natalie, also having been a journalist, probably didn’t even expect her to give up after one refusal. She’d taught Candace better than that—though she’d lived to regret it.

The owner of the antique store had directed her down the street to find a lawn chair. Just a few yards short of her destination was a pay phone. Though she tried to ignore it as she walked, her gaze kept drifting back to it. Even though it was the last thing she wanted on such a beautiful morning, she was going to stop and make a call before finishing her shopping. She was going to pick up the receiver, drop in the correct change and dial the number she’d committed to memory.

Rejection number two, coming up, she thought as she listened to the phone ring. It was answered after the third ring, making her catch her breath until she realized it was an answering machine. So Natalie wasn’t home, or she was screening her calls. It would make a lot of difference if she knew which.

It was the husband’s voice on the machine, his message simple and to the point. “You’ve reached the Rawlins residence. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you.” Just before the beep came a childish, “Yee-haw!”

Candace took a few shallow breaths, then hung up. She didn’t like pleading on tape where strangers could hear. Not that she was above doing it if she had no other choice, but only then.

Feeling as if the day were somehow less bright, less perfect, she crossed the final few feet to the store. Its name, U-Want-It, was emblazoned across one plate-glass window, and a life-size wildcat, its mouth open in a snarl, was painted on the other. The place appeared to have a little of everything—clothing, books, tools, toys, sports equipment, auto parts and even an old-fashioned soda fountain. The electronic bell on the door played the first few notes of a catchy tune, but the voices that greeted her were none too friendly.

They came from the checkout and belonged to two women—one with jet-black hair, probably in her forties, and the other a sullen blonde, maybe half that age. Candace gave them a vague smile, then wandered down the main aisle. That wasn’t enough distance, though, to block out their conversation.

“You can’t tell me what to do!” the blonde snapped in a tone that suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d said it. “My daddy—”

“Your daddy may run everything else around here, but this store is mine. I’m your boss, Shelley, and you know what that means? I do get to tell you what to do. Dusting shelves is a part of your job, as is being here on time and not making personal calls on store time.”

Shelley sniffed haughtily. “Dusting is a dirty job, and it’s hard on my nails, and I’m not going to do it. And I was only twenty minutes late.”

“For the third time in a week.”

“What—are you keeping track?”

“Yes, I am. It’s called a time card,” the woman said impatiently. “That’s how I know how much to pay you.”

“Hey, you can’t hold it out of my check just because I was a minute late! That’s not fair!”

“What’s not fair is you spending an hour a day on the phone, chatting with your—” As if on cue, the telephone rang. As Candace peeked up from the Christmas decorations that filled the center aisle, both women grabbed for it, but the older one was closer and quicker. “U-Want-It, we got it,” she said brusquely. “This is Martha…. No, Shelley can’t come to the phone now.”

“Hey!” Shelley shrieked, trying to get the phone before Martha hung up but failing. “You can’t treat me like this, or I’ll quit, and then you’ll be in trouble. You’ll never find anyone to replace me.”

“Oh, honey, my arthritic grandma over in the nursing home can work circles around you, and without whining, too.”

“That’s it!” Shelley jerked off the red vest that passed for a uniform, tossed it on the counter, then stomped toward the door. There she did an abrupt U-turn and swept back to grab the purse Martha rather loudly plunked on the counter. Back at the door, Shelley faced her once more. “Don’t even think about asking me to come back. You’d have to triple my salary, and even then I’d still rather eat dirt.”

“I’d be happy to serve it up for you,” Martha called after her as she left the store.

The quiet that immediately followed echoed in Candace’s ears. She hesitated a moment, then slowly approached the counter, where Martha was rubbing her temples. When Candace cleared her throat, she looked up, then smiled apologetically.

“Great service, huh? You come in for a simple purchase and instead get to watch the owner and clerk fight. I’m so sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. Though, honestly, I don’t know how you expect to find good help if you expect them to show up and actually work. That’s a bit unreasonable, isn’t it?”

Martha laughed. “It certainly is to Shelley. Oh, well…I only hired her because my husband works for her daddy. I’m sure he’ll hear about this, but…” She shrugged. “That’s life. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Do you have any lawn chairs?”

“Only the cheap aluminum kind that you usually have to throw away at the end of the summer. All the way at the back on the left.”

Candace headed toward the back, marveling at the variety of merchandise. Besides the Christmas display, inexpensive Halloween costumes and decorations were packed into one section of the main aisle, along with paper Thanksgiving turkeys, tablecloths and such. Women’s clothing was on the right in the front half of the shop, men’s at the rear and kids’ in between. Exactly where Martha had said, she found the last of the lawn chairs and picked up one, then optimistically added another. Who knew? Maybe Patsy Conway would join her for coffee some morning.

Back at the checkout, Martha rang up her total, and Candace handed over a twenty. After returning her change to her wallet, she hesitated. “Will you be hiring someone to replace Shelley—at least, temporarily?”

“I have to. I can’t be here most afternoons right now. My mother just got home from the hospital after having hip surgery, and I’m the only one who lives close enough to stay with her.” Martha’s shrewd gaze swept over her. “You interested?”

“For a while.”

“You have any experience?”

“A little.” She’d worked as a cashier on the three-to-eleven shift at a convenience store back when she was in school—the scariest job she’d ever had. At least here, she wouldn’t have to worry about someone coming in with a shotgun and blowing her away.

“You mind getting your hands dirty?”

Candace laughed. “I’d much rather clean dirt than eat it.”

“When can you start?”

“Today.”

It was that easy. No references, no application. Four questions, and Martha was handing her the red vest Shelley had discarded. “Welcome to U-Want-It. I’m Martha Andrews.”

“Candace Thompson.”

Martha showed her the cash register and gave her a quick tour of the store, including the stock room and bathroom. Then, dust mitts in hand, Candace set to work.

A year ago she’d thought dusting and cleaning so far beneath her that she’d paid someone else quite a lot to do it for her. She hadn’t worked so hard to get through school and then to advance her career just to spend her spare time chasing dust bunnies and scrubbing toilets.

Now the career was on hiatus, possibly gone for good since there wasn’t much demand for a writer who’d stopped writing. Now she supported herself working temporary jobs, and although she still wasn’t fond of scrubbing toilets, she’d found a measure of satisfaction in other jobs she’d once considered too menial.

She began dusting at the back of the store and worked her way up one aisle and down the next. The bell on the door sounded fairly often, but the customers paid little attention to her, and she stayed focused on her work.

When she reached the front, she started on the tall glass jars that lined a display next to the cash register. They were filled with candy—fat, multicolored peppermint sticks, candy necklaces, wax lips, straws that poured flavored sugar, tiny candy-covered chocolates. She remembered many of them from childhood trips to the store with her father, when he loaded her up with so many sweets that she’d often been sick by the time they returned home.

She was on her knees, dusting the jar that held the candy necklaces, when a young child crouched beside her. Prepared to smile, she glanced at him, but the smile wouldn’t form. She’d seen him for mere seconds the morning before, but she would have recognized him anywhere. If she were a better person, she would have been there when he was born, would have been named his godmother and been called Aunt Candace as soon as he’d learned to talk.

Now Natalie would be furious if she so much as spoke to him.

“Hi,” he greeted, his voice soft.

She looked around guiltily but saw no Rawlinses close enough to hear. “Hi.”

“I’m gonna buy some candy for me and Petey. Petey’s my horse. I named him myself.”

“Th-that’s nice.” She started to stand up, to retreat someplace safe until the boy and whoever had brought him were gone, but he spoke again.

“What kind of candy do ya think Petey would like?”

“I don’t know. What kind do you usually get him?”

“He likes plain ol’ sugar. And apples and pears and peaches and watermelon.” He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “But I like candy.”

“Well, maybe you should—”

“J.T.” Seemingly coming from nowhere, Josh Rawlins tossed some items on the counter, then swung the boy into his arms and held him away from Candace as she, too, stood up. “Remember what your mama and daddy tell you about talking to strangers?”

“Not to.”

“And she’s a stranger, isn’t she?”

The boy shook his head. “She’s the one that made Mama say a bad word. She was at our house.”

“But she’s still a stranger, and you’re not supposed to talk to her. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—” J.T. took one look at his uncle’s frown, then sighed. “Okay.”

“Good.” Josh set him down. “Why don’t you go sit on one of the stools over there, okay?” He watched as J.T. ran to the soda fountain, then clambered onto a stool. Slowly he turned back to Candace, but before he could speak, Martha, who had apparently witnessed the exchange from the far end of the counter, joined them.

“Teaching a kid to be careful of strangers is a good idea, Josh, but don’t you think he needs to know the difference between your garden-variety stranger and the clerk who’s trying to wait on him?”

Though Candace’s gaze had settled somewhere around his feet, she knew the instant his gaze touched her. It made her face grow hot and her nerves tingle—made her wish she were only three inches tall so she could duck behind the register or crawl into a drawer to hide from his stare.

“You’ve got to be kidding. You hired her?”

“Yes, I did. You want to make something of it?”

His gaze didn’t shift. “Get J.T. an ice cream cone while I pay for this, will you?”

Martha hesitated, then crossed the room to the fountain counter.

His voice low but no less dangerous, Josh accused, “You said you were leaving.”

Candace aimed for mild inoffensiveness. “No. You suggested it. I chose not to follow your advice.”

“No one wants you here.”

Clenching her jaw, she moved behind the cash register and began ringing up his purchases—an air filter for a truck, a pair of boot laces, a spool of white thread and a can of paint thinner. Before she totaled it, she stiffly asked, “What about J.T. and Petey’s candy?”

“He’ll get his candy at the grocery store.”

Candace hit Total, then sacked everything while he pulled his wallet from his pocket. She made change, which he accepted as if touching her might soil him. He didn’t grab the bag and the kid, though, and put some distance between them. Instead, he leaned closer, so close she could smell the faint tang of sweat and the…well, horsey scent of a horse. So close she could hear the short, even rhythm of his breathing and see the muscles tightening in his jaw.

So close she could wonder, just for an instant, if he ever put all that passion into a kiss.

“You’re not welcome here.”

Her presence had been unwelcome to people far more important to her than some Oklahoma cowboy, no matter how cute he was. That fact gave her the strength to keep her gaze level and her mouth shut.

“Natalie’s not going to talk to you, not now, not ever.”

She didn’t have to talk, Candace thought. All she had to do was listen. If she would simply agree to that, then Candace would say what she needed to say, then leave.

But that was between her and Natalie, and no matter how adamantly he might insist otherwise, it was none of his business.

Then he repeated his words from the day before. “Do us all a favor and get the hell out of here.”

She let him turn away, let him take three or four steps, before she softly spoke, drawing him back around to face her. “I’m not interested in doing favors, Josh, and frankly I’m not interested in your advice, your opinions or your threats. I came here for a purpose, and I don’t intend to leave until…” Until she succeeded? Or, more likely, until she admitted failure? “Until I’m satisfied with what I’ve done.”

He gave her a long, scathing look, then scooped up J.T. “How much for the ice cream?”

“It’s on the house,” Martha replied.

With a curt nod he left without looking Candace’s way again.

“Well…” Martha gazed at her from the opposite counter. “You have some talking to do, my friend. Pull up a stool and tell Auntie Martha all.”

Not on her life, Candace thought grimly. She had enough enemies in Hickory Bluff in the Rawlins family. She couldn’t afford one more.

Chapter Three

When it came to precipitation in Oklahoma, it seemed there was no such thing as a balance. Months of drought were often followed by so much rain that the lowlands flooded, the dirt roads turned to mud and a smart cowboy stayed inside.

But no one had ever accused Josh of being smart.

After a day and a half of constant downpours, he’d decided he might as well be antsy someplace else. He’d knocked off work early Friday, cleaned up and packed a bag and was heading for Tulsa. He intended to visit some old friends, maybe catch a movie or two and eat in a restaurant other than Norma Sue’s. Hell, he might even call Jerry Lee and see if they still needed a date for the concert for cousin Stacey.

Or maybe not. He had enough frustration right now without adding a beautiful woman desperately seeking a husband and father for her children.

He hadn’t told Tate and Natalie anything about running into Candace Thompson at Norma Sue’s…or Frenchy’s…or U-Want-It. If one of them had mentioned her, he would have said something, but he hadn’t seen any reason to bring it up out of the blue.

Unfortunately, J.T. wasn’t as big on discretion as Josh was. He’d wanted to know whether the nice lady really was a stranger. Natalie hadn’t been happy that Candace had gotten so close to her son, and Tate had called Josh irresponsible, and things had gone downhill from there.

Josh was irresponsible at times—he knew that, and if he ever forgot, there were plenty of people who were more than happy to remind him. But it had pissed him off, coming from perfect Tate, who’d never made a mistake or failed to live up to a responsibility in his life. Even getting his high school girlfriend pregnant hadn’t been his fault—the condom had failed.

So perfect Tate was staying home with his perfect wife and son, and Josh was going off to spend a few days someplace where no one expected him to be anything but a screw-up. And when he came back Sunday, it would be as if no harsh words had ever been spoken.

Though it was usually quicker to cut across the back roads and catch the highway about eight miles north of Hickory Bluff, because of the rain, Josh headed for the nearest paved road. It took him into town, where the street-lights were already shining and the only people out were the ones who didn’t know better. The Wildcats’ game would start in two hours, and they would play to a full stadium in spite of the weather, but he was grateful he didn’t have to be there. He’d never missed any of Jordan’s or Tate’s games, but his obligation was over until J.T. was old enough to play.

Maybe he’d get him to rodeo instead.

With the radio tuned to a country station and the windshield wipers keeping time, he drove through town, then passed Frenchy’s. About a half mile past the bar, his head-lights glinted off a car on the side of the road—a sleek little silver convertible, with a sleek little blonde crouched beside the right rear tire.

It was a hell of a time for a flat, though he couldn’t think of anyone who deserved it more than Ms. Thompson. He didn’t take his foot off the gas as he drove by. She didn’t need help from him. A deputy would be by sooner or later, or some Good Samaritan on his way to the game—or, hell, he’d seen the cell phone on the seat beside her Tuesday. She could call the garage in town. Ol’ Chief Ebersole would be happy to change the tire for her, and he probably wouldn’t charge even half his usual rate, what with her being so pretty. She would make out fine.

And telling himself that didn’t stop him from swearing as he swung onto the dirt road that led to the campground, turned in a tight circle, then headed back toward town.

Pulling onto the shoulder so his truck was nose to nose with her car, he sat there a moment. With the headlights in her eyes, he doubted she could see who he was, but she didn’t look the least bit concerned…until he got out and she recognized him. Then wariness crept into her eyes, her body language, her manner.

Had any woman ever looked at him like a deer caught in headlights? None that he could recall, and it pissed him off that she did. Granted, he’d been unfriendly, but it wasn’t like he would actually hurt her.

“Need any help?” He tried not to sound as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world, but he didn’t pull it off. He sounded rude, hostile and exactly as if he’d rather be anyplace else.

“No, thanks.”

Though her clothes were soaked and water dripped from her hair, she was holding an umbrella now to protect the car manual from the rain. He moved close enough to see that she’d looked up how to change a tire. She’d gotten as far as opening the manual and removing the jack from the trunk.

Ignoring her refusal, he went to the trunk, found it open but pushed down to keep the rain out, and removed the lug wrench and the spare. The wrench wasn’t good for anything besides acting as a lever on the jack, and the spare was an undersize doughnut—one of the worst ideas the auto industry had ever come up with, in his none-too-humble opinion. He tossed both on the waterlogged ground, then stalked back to his truck to remove his own lug wrench.

“I’d really rather do this myself,” Candace said when he returned.

He glared at her in the gloomy dusk. “Why?” If she said one word about him or his behavior, he would get back in his truck and—

“Because I think changing a tire is a good thing to know, and I need to learn.”

He stared at her a moment, all too aware of the cold rain dripping from his hair and down his back. Finally he stepped back and offered her the lug wrench.

She tossed the manual into the passenger seat, then folded the umbrella and left it on the roof. Crouching in front of the tire, she tried the various ends of the X-shaped wrench in search of one that fitted.

Her hair was plastered to her skull, and he would bet whatever makeup she’d had on was gone. Her clothes were plastered, too, her pants clinging to her thighs and calves, her cotton shirt hugging curves and revealing the lines of what appeared to be a pink lace bra. Her breasts weren’t very big, but he wasn’t a breast man himself. There was so much to appreciate about the female body. Why limit himself to one—er, two parts?

She found the right end of the lug wrench, fitted it over a nut and pulled. Really pulled. Put her whole body into it.

Nothing happened.

She tried the next nut, and the next, with the same result. On the fourth one, she pushed on one side of the wrench and pulled on the other with so much force that when it slipped, she tumbled to the ground.

“Well, hell.” She maneuvered back onto her knees, brushed grit from her left arm, then gazed up at him. “If there’s a secret to this, now would be a really good time to share it.”

He held out his hand, and after a moment she gave him the wrench. “No secret,” he said, kneeling and manhandling the nuts loose. “You’re just not strong enough.”

He didn’t miss the face she made at him but ignored it. “You just want to loosen the nuts, but don’t remove them yet. If you do, the tire could come off when you jack the car up.”

After laying the wrench aside, he moved the jack into place, then reached for her hand. Her fingers were slender and cold, and the contact startled her—he could feel it in how stiff she’d become. It wasn’t a good idea—he could feel that in how stiff he was becoming.

He moved her hand along the undercarriage of the car. “Feel that? That’s where you want this part of the jack to go.”

He wasn’t sure if she pulled away or he let go, but suddenly they weren’t touching anymore and she seemed to concentrate unusually hard on positioning the jack. He moved back, then stood up and backed off a few more steps just to be safe.

Safe from what? he wondered cynically as he watched her. She was six inches shorter than him, slender and delicate, like a fragile little china doll that belonged on someone’s shelf. She was beautiful, sure, but that didn’t count for much, considering that she’d betrayed Natalie’s trust and broken her heart.

That was a lot to forgive, and Rawlinses didn’t forgive so easily.

Following his directions, she removed the flat tire, put on the doughnut, then let the jack down. After she tightened the lug nuts, he tightened them another half turn, then lifted the flat tire into the trunk while she got the jack.

When she closed the trunk lid, she was wearing a self-satisfied grin, as if she’d succeeded at something really important. “I know you wish it had been anyone but me, but thank you.”

“Yeah.” He picked up his lug wrench and took a few backward steps toward his truck. “Get that fixed first thing in the morning. That doughnut’s not safe.”

“Okay.”

He was halfway to the pickup when she spoke again. “Hey…I’m staying right up the road, at the campground, if you’d…if you’d like to dry off a bit or…or have a warm drink or…” She shrugged as if she’d run out of words…or courage.

The answer was an easy one. No, he didn’t want to dry off, and no, he didn’t want to share a drink with her. Easy, easy answer…so why didn’t he just say it? Why did he have this feeling that if he opened his mouth, the wrong words would come out?

After a long moment in which he said nothing, she shrugged again. “It’s okay. Thanks. I, uh, appreciate…” She grabbed the umbrella from the roof of the car, then slid behind the wheel and started the engine. By the time he climbed into his truck, she’d already backed up a dozen feet and was easing onto the pavement.

Turning around, he headed for Tulsa once again. Then, for reasons he couldn’t even begin to understand, when the convertible turned off the highway onto the campground road, so did he.

A quarter of a mile in, the road branched, the right fork going to the old Conway house, the left curving another half mile to the lake and a dozen RV sites. Only one was occupied, by a small motor home bearing Georgia tags. Candace parked beside it, in the pool of light cast by a nearby streetlamp, got out and waited for him in the rain as if it were a warm, sunny afternoon.

Obviously, she wasn’t as delicate as she looked, he thought as he followed her to the RV. This was hardly his idea of a good safe place for a woman alone to stay. With no neighbors for more than a half mile and only two street-lights burning, it felt isolated, lonely and spooky. All kinds of things could happen out here, with no one ever the wiser.

She unlocked the door, then stepped inside. When she closed the door behind him, she noticed his duffel bag. “You have some dry clothes?”

He nodded.

“I’ll get some towels and you can change out here.” She headed toward the back of the motor home, turning on lights on the way. A moment later she was back with two beach towels, then she disappeared again.

Josh stripped down, dried off and dressed in clean clothes from his bag. Leaving his shoes near the door, he used one of the towels to dry his hair while he looked around the place.

It was small, cramped, comfortably cluttered. Books were scattered over the dining table—mostly fiction, women’s stuff—and on the built-in sofa across the narrow aisle was a quilt tied with pink ribbons. There were pillows, too, and a small tape player, along with a stack of tapes. He picked up the top one, Becoming the Best You Possible, then laid it down again.

He was standing in the aisle, listening to the rain drum on the roof and thinking he’d be better off going home and giving Tulsa a try the next day, when she returned. She didn’t make any noise that he recalled hearing. He just knew she was there. And when he turned, sure enough…

She wore plaid flannel pajama bottoms and a tank top. The bra strap that edged out from beneath the fabric was pale green and made him wonder why she bothered. Her hair stood on end, as if she’d just crawled out of a bed where she’d done everything but sleep, and her feet were bare and somehow sexy.

She stopped in front of the compact refrigerator and pulled open the door. “I have bottled water, caffeine-free pop, and I can do hot chocolate.”

What kind of woman invited a man over for a drink, then offered him hot chocolate? he wondered, then answered his own question. The kind who didn’t have anything else on her mind. And that was good, because he damn sure didn’t need to have anything else on his mind, either. Not with this woman.

“Hot chocolate’s fine.” He sat down on the couch and watched as she fixed the chocolate. Her toenails were painted red, he noticed, and she wore a ring with a silver heart on the middle one. It was silly and something of a turn-on, and he was starting to think he really should have invited Theresa along this weekend.

Grateful that her hands weren’t shaking, though she could pass it off as a chill if they were, Candace carried the two mugs to the couch. She handed one to Josh, then sat on the bench across the aisle. After one awkward moment, then another, she grasped the first topic to come to mind, gesturing toward the bag next to his shoes. “Were you going somewhere?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. If you need to call someone—”

“No.” After a moment he shrugged. “No one’s expecting me. It wasn’t a sure thing.”

Well, that was the extent of her small talk. It amazed her that a reporter who’d asked a lot of tough questions and written a lot of powerful pieces could find herself so completely at a loss for words. But what did she expect? Except for her friendship with Natalie, she’d had no personal life to speak of. If she were interviewing Josh for a story, she would have more questions than he wanted to answer.

But she wasn’t interviewing him. She was quietly admiring him, and maybe even lusting after him, just a little bit, and those weren’t easy for her, particularly when she knew what he thought of her.

At least that gave her something to say. “Why did you come back to help me?”

He glanced at her, then away, sipped his chocolate and plucked at a ribbon on her quilt. After a time he shrugged as if his actions were unimportant. “Around here that’s what we do.”

“So if it hadn’t been you, some other properly raised Oklahoma cowboy would have stopped.”

He nodded.

“So…why did you come back? You didn’t need to, if you knew someone else would help.”

His brow drew together in a frown. “Lucinda Rawlins has certain expectations of her sons and grandsons. Leaving a woman stranded alongside the highway isn’t one of them…no matter who she is.”

She would have been happier if he’d kept those last five words to himself. But none of this was about her happiness—at least, not directly.

Holding in a sigh, she cradled her mug and let the heat seep through her chilled skin. Her fingers had been cold ever since she’d left work…except for those few minutes alongside the road when Josh had taken her hand. She knew it sounded sappy and romancey, but she would swear she’d felt some kind of charge pass between them. For a few moments she’d forgotten that she looked and felt like a drowned rat. For those few moments she’d felt warm and tingly, and she’d wondered how much warmer and tinglier she might feel if he really touched her. If he brushed her hair back from her face or slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close….

How appalled would he be if he knew she’d had such thoughts? Enough to drop the chocolate, leave his shoes behind and run screaming into the night.

“Your arm’s bleeding.”

Though she continued to gaze at him, it took a moment for his words to register. She lifted her left arm from the table and saw blood smeared across the surface, then twisted the arm to one side, then the other, searching for the source. “I must have scraped my elbow when I lost my balance. Excuse me.”

With a tight smile she went to the tiny bathroom that separated the kitchen from the bedroom. It was easier to see the cut in the mirror there. It wasn’t bad, but it continued to ooze blood. After cleaning it with a damp cloth, she located the largest adhesive bandage she had, squirted a dollop of antibiotic ointment on the gauze pad, then tried to gauge the proper alignment in the mirror.

“Let me.” Josh stepped into the cramped space, turned her for a better look, then smoothed the bandage in place. His fingertips were rough when they slid from the bandage to her skin—callused from years of hard work, but gentle, bringing back memories of other times, other hands….

Candace couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t escape. Worse, she didn’t want to escape. She knew it was wrong. Reckless. He was the last person in the world she should want to get involved with, and there were a hundred reasons why. Natalie was between them. Her life was nothing but uncertainties. She was afraid. Afraid, afraid, ninety-five times afraid.

But his fingers were still touching her, lightly stroking from bandage to skin, and she was amazingly warm and aware, and even if it was reckless, she couldn’t recall ever feeling so secure.

A soft sound drifted on the air between them, not really a moan or a whimper so much as a wordless plea. It was heavy with pleasure and need, and she realized when his dark eyes hardened and turned cold that it had come from her.

Embarrassed, she took a step back and felt the commode against her legs. Forcing a smile that felt every bit as phony as it was, she lowered her arm to her side. “Th-thanks for the help. Our, um, chocolate is getting cold.”

Taking a deep breath, she squeezed between him and the door frame and beat a hasty retreat to the living area. She grabbed the quilt from the couch, then slid all the way back on the bench flanking the dining table. With her legs stretched out in front of her, the table on one side and cabinets on the other and the quilt tucked over her, she felt relatively protected.

But from whom? Josh? Or herself?

She half expected him to grab his shoes and clothes and go. The way he looked at them when he passed suggested the thought had crossed his mind. But instead, he settled on the sofa with his hot chocolate. When he spoke, his tone was conversational, his voice steady. “I had a quilt like that when I was five. I was being forced to go to school against my will, so my grandmother made it to cheer me up. It was made from my old worn-out jeans and tied with yarn.”

She plucked at one of the ribbons until she recalled the image of his long, tanned fingers doing the same. Resolutely she folded her arms over her chest. “I have no talent for sewing. A friend made this for me.”

The friend’s name was Betty, and Candace had known her only online. They’d met in a chat room and had built the only real friendship she’d had since Natalie. That was a sad commentary on her life. “It’s my security blanket,” she added with an awkward shrug.

She half wished he would ask her something personal—what friend? Security from what? Of course, he didn’t, so after a time she asked him, “Does your grandmother live in Hickory Bluff?”

His gaze narrowed, and she knew exactly what he was thinking—that she was asking because of Natalie, digging for information on Natalie. Though, really, what possible good would it do her to know where Natalie’s husband’s grandmother lived? Would it persuade Natalie to meet with her, or make her view Candace with any less disdain? Of course not.

Presumably, he reached the same conclusion, because at last he answered the question. Barely. “No.”

It wasn’t much encouragement to go on, but hey, she’d once been a damn pushy reporter, and she had the awards to show for it. “I only ask because I find families interesting. You’ve heard the joke about putting the fun back in dysfunctional?” She waited for his faint nod. “That’s my family. We weren’t fun, but we damn sure were dysfunctional.”

“So that’s your excuse? You can’t be held responsible for what you did to Natalie because your family was dysfunctional? Your father was a drunk and your mother didn’t love you, so you’re entitled to behave however you want without suffering the consequences?”

Now it was her turn to simply look at him. Was he guessing? After all, that was about as stereotypical as a rotten family could get.

Or had Natalie repeated all of Candace’s confidences to her new family?

“I’m not blaming anyone but myself,” she said evenly. She’d been self-absorbed, ambitious and greedy. She’d wanted everything Natalie had had—hell, she’d wanted to be Natalie. And for a few years she had more or less succeeded. While her former friend had disappeared with her career in ruins, Candace had moved on and up. She’d become the hotshot female reporter making a name for herself. Even Natalie’s father, a legend in the field who’d always found his daughter lacking, had accepted and welcomed her. Though he’d never lifted a finger to help Natalie follow in his footsteps, he’d extended a very generous helping hand to Candace, giving her the support and encouragement that should have gone to Natalie instead.

For a while. Until Candace had disappointed the great man by letting illness come between her and her career. In Thaddeus Grant’s mind, nothing interfered with the job. His wife’s death thirty years ago hadn’t distracted him, and neither had the young daughter he was supposed to raise in her mother’s stead. The career, journalism, the news, was all-important.

Until she’d gotten sick, she’d agreed with him. Now she knew better. The job was nothing if you didn’t have a life—friends, family, anyone who cared.

Feeling the faint flutters of depression settling in her chest, she laid the quilt aside and slid to her feet. She pulled a plastic shopping bag from a kitchen drawer, stuffed Josh’s wet clothing in it, then held it out. “You should probably go on to wherever you’re going.” It wasn’t the most polite invitation to leave, but it was the best she could come up with, considering her limited experience in dealing with visitors. And she wanted him gone, before she got anymore blue.

He got to his feet slowly, trading his mug for his shoes. They were work boots, and looked none the worse for the time they’d spent in the rain. He shoved his feet inside and laced them quickly, shrugged into a dry jacket from the duffel—fleece-lined denim—then picked up the two bags. “Thanks for the chocolate.” His tone was civil, nothing more.

“You’re welcome. And thanks again for your help.” She watched as he opened the door and gazed for a moment at the rain, falling even harder than before. The cold air seeping in made her shiver and hug herself tightly. “For the record—”

He glanced back at her.

“My father was the sweetest, most good-natured drunk I ever knew, and while my mother never wanted a child, she tried to make the best of having one. It’s not her fault her best wasn’t much.”

The look in his eyes shifted, edging into embarrassment or perhaps chagrin. Maybe Natalie hadn’t spilled her secrets, Candace thought with a hint of relief. Maybe he’d gone for the stereotype, never dreaming it was true.

Without saying anything, he stepped out into the rain, then closed the door behind him.

Candace stood there a long time, until her chills were gone, until the cold fresh scent of the rain gave way to the RV’s usual citrus-and-vanilla potpourri. She rinsed the two mugs, then turned on the tape deck, sending the relaxing sounds of the ocean through the motor home. Grabbing her legal pad and an ink pen, as well as her quilt, she stretched out on the couch, plumped pillows behind her back and breathed deeply of potpourri and the faint hint of Josh.

She settled in for another Friday night alone.

  Learn a useful skill.

  Indulge in a lustful fantasy.

Josh followed the dirt road back to the highway, then sat there, engine idling for a moment. If he turned right, he could still make it to Tulsa in plenty of time to hook up with his buddies and do some much-needed relaxing. If he turned left, he could be home in ten or fifteen minutes and…and what? Spend the night alone watching TV? That was pathetic. Invite Theresa over? Maybe even sweet-talk her into cooking dinner for them, and then…

Something that felt a lot like guilt made him move uncomfortably on the seat. Theresa liked cooking, and she especially liked cooking for him. But, hell, there was just something wrong about calling her when he felt so damn…he-didn’t-even-know-what about Candace. Not interested. Not turned on.

Unsettled. That was as good a word as any. He wasn’t used to a beautiful woman being off-limits for any reason other than marriage—and Candace Thompson was definitely beautiful. If not for her history with Natalie, he would have already done things with her that would make a grown man blush. Instead, he wasn’t supposed to see her…talk to her…even think about wanting her.

He damn sure wasn’t supposed to go home with her or bandage her scrapes or touch her in a way that brought that soft, erotic whimper from her.

Clutching the steering wheel tighter, he turned right onto the highway, toward Tulsa, away from Candace. A night on the town, too much fun, too much to drink—all sounded pretty good at the moment.

And if he did it right, come tomorrow morning, he wouldn’t remember a damn thing about tonight.

“Your mother needs a book of stamps from the post office, and your brother wants this stuff.” Natalie slid a list bearing Tate’s writing across the kitchen table. “And here’s the grocery list. And can you drop off Jordan’s sports coat at the cleaners? He wants to take it back to school with him this weekend. Let’s see, is there anything else?”

It was a sunny, cool Monday morning, and given a choice, Josh would spend it on horseback. Not that his sister-in-law had given him a choice. Bossing him around came as naturally to her as it did to Tate and their mother. It was a good thing for the family that being bossed around came naturally to him.

“I can’t think of anything,” she said as the phone rang. Being closest, she rose to answer, said hello, then frowned and hung up.

“Nobody there?”

“No,” she said flatly. “Oh, can you tell Martha to go ahead with the ice cream cake we talked about? I’ll need it Saturday morning.”

Couldn’t that be done by phone? he wanted to ask. Better yet, couldn’t they skip the ice cream cake altogether and order a regular cake at the grocery store bakery? Of course, if he asked, Natalie would want to know why, and then he’d have to tell her that Candace was working at U-Want-It. Somehow that hadn’t been made quite clear in their shouting match—er, conversation—last week, and no doubt that would somehow be his fault.

“Anything else?” he asked as he stood up.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll be back in a couple hours.” He folded the lists and slid them into his hip pocket, grabbed his nephew’s coat from the back of a chair and picked up his own jacket. He was passing the wall-mounted phone when it rang again, and though Natalie moved as if to answer, he picked it up. “Hello.”

There wasn’t silence on the line—he could hear voices in the background, the sound of a bell—but whoever had called apparently didn’t want to talk. After a few seconds the line went dead. “Nobody again,” he said as he hung up, then headed for the door. “See you, Nat.”

He’d made the drive into town so many thousands of time that he swore he could do it blindfolded. He didn’t have to think about traffic, his speed or where to turn—it was as if his truck was on autopilot—which meant he had all that time to let his mind wander.

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