“Nothing works out the way you think it’s going to when you’re eighteen, Colt.

“At least, it hasn’t for me. But that’s okay. You know, when I think about it, not one thing has changed since that night in your pickup, and yet everything has changed. I’m a different person now, even though I’m still the smart girl who helps everybody with their algebra homework. I just get paid for it now. My life hasn’t changed that much on the surface. I’m still in Aloma, still in the same house, still a—”

Becca broke off with a sharp intake of breath. She clamped her mouth shut and looked at him with wide eyes, her cheeks flushing. Colt thought for a second she was choking, but she’d just gone very, very still.

And in that moment the sentence completed itself in his head. He gaped at her.

“Becca, don’t tell me you’re still a virgin?”

Dear Reader,

The year is almost over, but the excitement continues here at Intimate Moments. Reader favorite Ruth Langan launches a new miniseries, THE LASSITER LAW, with By Honor Bound. Law enforcement is the Lassiter family legacy—and love is their future. Be there to see it all happen.

Our FIRSTBORN SONS continuity is almost at an end. This month’s installment is Born in Secret, by Kylie Brant. Next month Alexandra Sellers finishes up this six-book series, which leads right into ROMANCING THE CROWN, our new twelve-book Intimate Moments continuity continuing the saga of the Montebellan royal family. THE PROTECTORS, by Beverly Barton, is one of our most popular ongoing miniseries, so don’t miss this seasonal offering, Jack’s Christmas Mission. Judith Duncan takes you back to the WIDE OPEN SPACES of Alberta, Canada, for The Renegade and the Heiress, a romantic wilderness adventure you won’t soon forget. Finish up the month with Once Forbidden… by Carla Cassidy, the latest in her miniseries THE DELANEY HEIRS, and That Kind of Girl, the second novel by exciting new talent Kim McKade.

And in case you’d like a sneak preview of next month, our Christmas gifts to you include the above-mentioned conclusion to FIRSTBORN SONS, Born Royal, as well as Brand-New Heartache, award-winning Maggie Shayne’s latest of THE OKLAHOMA ALL-GIRL BRANDS. See you then!

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

That Kind of Girl
Kim McKade

KIM MCKADE

came out of the womb knowing she was going to be a writer. She was also convinced she would someday be a gourmet chef (at last count she’s destroyed two blenders, three mixers and innumerable pots and pans), dreamed of singing like Wynonna (but has the vocal talent of Alfalfa) and at one time aspired to be a dancer (but was born with the legs of a coffee table). She has persevered in her dream to write, however, and today spends happy hours concocting stories in the Texas home she shares with her husband and her daughter, who is inarguably the world’s cutest kid.

For my biggest fans and staunchest supporters, Kelly and Kathy.

For Darryl.

Everything good in my life started with you.

And with special thanks to Brenda Ash, for getting me started down this road.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

He had a body that belonged on one of those beefcake calendars. Clothed now in faded jeans and a white undershirt that had seen better days, he had broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and everything in between…well, everything in between was just where it should be.

He hunkered down over the broken board on the front porch—the board she’d almost fallen through one day when she’d come to look in on his father. His black hair had been raked back with his fingers, ruffled across his forehead in an unruly wave. He pounded on the board, loud enough to drown out the sound of her arrival. No photographer could have set up a better shot to showcase masculinity at work than Colt Bonner hefting a hammer.

Becca had fantasized—a million years ago when she was young and held out hope that fantasies came true—that Colt was Heathcliffe and she was Catherine, and he would sweep her across the dry west Texas plains as if they were the moors of Scotland.

Fat chance.

Back then, she’d been about as desirable as a box of rocks. And the only sweeping being done was with the handy O’Cedar.

But she had changed. She chanted those words like a mantra as she drove down the road to the Bonner house, and even as she climbed from the car and closed the door softly behind her. From her long red hair pulled back in a shower of curls, to the crisp teal-green suit she wore, she’d changed her style. True, she wasn’t a siren in red leather, but at least she’d made an improvement on the shapeless, drab dresses Mama had always insisted she wear.

She’d changed on the inside, too. She’d worked hard over the past few years cultivating a sense of self-esteem, a sense of herself. Wasn’t she proving that right now? If she wasn’t confident in herself, would she ever be able to come here? After all, Colt was the one to whom she’d offered her virginity, a dozen years ago.

Colt was the one who had turned her down.

The reminder had her nerves jittering. This was a bad idea. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. He hadn’t seen her yet. She could tiptoe away and he’d never be the wiser.

“You okay?”

Becca gulped and opened her eyes. Colt studied her frankly over his shoulder.

“Fine,” she said brightly. Too brightly. She forced some moderation into her smile and stepped toward the porch. “I’m Becca Danvers. We went to school together.” So much for making him guess who she was.

Colt snorted. Actually snorted. “I know who you are, Becca. I haven’t been kicked in the head that many times.”

“Of course not,” she stammered. “I just thought that since I—well, people say I’ve changed a lot. I didn’t know if you would recognize me.”

“Haven’t changed a bit to me,” he said, turning back to the porch.

Her smile fell. “Oh. Well, good. Good.”

Wonderful. She was really impressing him with her cool sophistication now. He’d noticed her for all of three seconds. She reminded herself why she was here. The man had just lost his father—well, not just; Doff Bonner had passed on two months ago—and Colt had come back to a town he’d avoided for over a dozen years. It was bound to be a hard time for him.

“I stopped by to see if you needed anything. I heard you got back in town last night—” Actually, she’d seen his pickup pull up, but she wasn’t going to let him think she sat around staring at his house.

“I see the Aloma gossip mill is still in business.” He didn’t bother to look up. “Everybody’s already worried what that degenerate Bonner is up to now.”

She pursed her lips and moved closer to the porch. She should have known Colt would be angry. She hadn’t seen him in over twelve years, but she remembered enough to know that anger was his first line of defense. She wasn’t put off by it any more now than she had been when she was ten.

She stepped onto the porch and leaned against the rail, crossing her ankles. “Yes, the entire town was peeking through their curtains when you drove past the city limits sign. We held a town meeting this morning to decide how we’re going to run you out. Someone suggested calling in the National Guard. But me? I prefer a good old-fashioned stoning any day.” She smiled and raised her eyebrows at him.

Colt sat back on his haunches, his forearms across his knees, and gave her a rueful half-smile. Her heart did a slow flip.

“Okay, your point is made. I guess you could say I’m not exactly glad to be back in Aloma County.”

“I can’t say I blame you, considering everything that happened before you left.” She folded her arms across her middle, careful to make sure the Santa Fe Sand she wore on her perfectly manicured fingertips—which were probably still a little wet, anyway—didn’t smudge against the teal of her power suit. She was doing a pretty good job, she thought, pretending the sight of him didn’t make her breath come short and her heart pound. “And considering what’s brought you back. I’m sorry about Doff, Colt.”

Colt’s eyes narrowed, and he waved away that consideration with his hand. “Don’t be. He brought it on himself.”

She raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything. There was no love lost between Colt and his father; everyone knew that. She’d grown up a hundred yards from Doff Bonner’s violent temper. She knew what the man was capable of, including turning his own son against him. As Colt said, he brought it on himself.

Colt stood and walked across the porch, his boots clopping softly on the wooden boards. She watched him until she realized with a jolt that he was moving toward her, his eyes dark with intent.

Her mouth went dry. The memory of the last night she’d seen Colt came to her in excruciatingly vivid staccato flashes. Kissing him, holding on to him for dear life. The feel of him beneath her as she sat on his lap; feeling closer to him in that moment than she’d ever felt to anyone, before or since.

Her ridiculous offer of a dozen years ago hung foremost in her mind, and she realized with mortification that he was probably remembering it, too, more clearly than she.

His eyes were steady on hers, brooding. He meant to kiss her again. She could see it in the way he honed in on her. She regained enough presence of mind to close her mouth.

He moved toward her with a tangible sense of purpose, his jaw set with determination. His gaze held hers with an intensity that had her heart stuttering. He stopped inches from her. She could smell the scent of hard work. In a delicious panic, her eyelids fluttered closed.

He was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat. “’Scuse me, Becca. You’re leaning on my shirt.”

She opened her eyes a fraction, to see him watching her with barely disguised amusement. She willed the porch to open up and swallow her whole. When it didn’t, she sighed and moved aside.

Once again, she’d made a colossal fool of herself in front of Colt Bonner.

He picked up the shirt from the porch rail and slipped his arms into it, leaving the buttons undone. Then he moved to the opposite rail and leaned against it, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “So, what do you think I need?”

She blinked rapidly a few times. “What?” Her voice quavered.

He ducked his head, but she saw his grin, anyway. Oh, well. If she couldn’t be cool and sophisticated, she could console herself with the knowledge that she was amusing.

“You said you came by to see if I needed anything. What did you have in mind?”

Since her vivid imagination had deserted her, she told him the truth. “Dinner,” she said. “I didn’t know if the electricity was turned on yet, and I didn’t think you would want to eat at the Dairy Queen your first night back in town.”

“Electricity got turned on this morning.”

“Oh. Okay.” She walked slowly around the porch, deciding that she couldn’t have made a bigger failure of this visit if she’d tried. She’d wanted to comfort him over the loss of his father, which he obviously didn’t need. She’d wanted to show him that she wasn’t that same mousy, shy wallflower, and instead she’d proved conclusively that she was a nut. He didn’t even want her dinner.

“Okay, then. I need to be going. I have papers to grade and—”

She heard his shout of warning at the same time the porch decided to finally open up and swallow her. Not whole, though. Just her left shin.

Jagged wood bit into her leg as she pitched forward, and she slammed her hand against the wall to regain her balance. Cold air under the porch brushed against her skin, and her foot thudded against solid ground.

Colt leapt across the porch and grabbed her before she fell on her face. His hands under her elbows, he brought her against him.

Becca pulled frantically on her leg. It was stuck.

“Stop, Becca!” Colt said sharply. “You keep pulling like that and you’re going to make it worse.”

She stopped. Colt leaned over the splintered wood, one hand cupping her leg behind her knee. Becca bit her lip and looked down at his dark head bent over her leg. Physical pain began to seep past her hurt pride.

Colt cursed, then tilted his head to offer her a curt apology. “This place is a disaster. I should just pay to have the place bulldozed and sell the land. It’s going to take a month or more to get it livable again.” He muttered something under his breath and sat back on his heels. “Don’t move. I’m going to have to get the hammer and pry some of this loose before you can pull your leg out.”

She stood there, lopsided, while he picked up the hammer and fit the claw end into the hole beside her leg. “I hope this doesn’t hurt,” he said as he gave it a mighty tug. The muscles of his shoulders flexed as he worked the wood free. The entire board popped up with a screeching groan.

It did hurt, a little. She asked through gritted teeth, “You’re going to remodel the house?”

He shrugged and put his hand on her calf, helping her out of the hole. “I’m going to try— How does it feel? It looks pretty scraped up.”

The Silky Sheer Precious Ivory panty hose she’d bought early that morning before school were ruined, of course. A big ugly hole opened around the scrape, and three different runs inched from the hole toward her skirt. She managed to nod, as he ran his fingers down the abrasion.

“It’s fine, really.” She drew her leg away from his fingers. “You’re not staying, are you?”

“I’m going to get the house livable again, and sell it as quick as I can. Right now, it ought to be condemned.” He cursed and shook his head.

“Damn old drunk, I’m surprised he didn’t break his neck in this dump.” He knelt in front of her and looked up, grim faced. “Do you want to see a doctor?”

She shook her head and smiled. “Of course not. It’s just a little red.” It stung mightily, and her shinbone ached. She resisted the urge to bend over and blow on it. “A little soap and water, and it will be fine.”

Colt stood and took her hand, leading her away from the hole. “Lazy, worthless drunk. I can’t believe he let the place go like this.” He scowled at the piles of junk in the yard, the tangles of weeds and dried grass, the gray weathered wood that had once been painted white.

Because it felt a little too overwhelming, Becca withdrew her hand from his. If he noticed at all, he didn’t acknowledge it.

Becca took off her bone-colored flat and shook out dirt. “He had a few other things on his mind the past few years. Like maintaining a constant state of inebriation.”

“So, nothing’s changed. You’re the one who left those Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlets for him, aren’t you.”

Becca nodded.

Colt shook his head. “Still the champion of lost causes, Becca? You know he was using them as coasters for his beer, don’t you?”

“I know. And I don’t think anyone is a lost cause.”

“He is,” Colt said grimly. “He is now.”

Becca rolled her lips together and locked her hands behind her back. Despite his attitude, she knew Colt was upset over his father’s passing. Or maybe that was just her, needing to see the best in him. “We tried to get hold of you when he died, Colt. We knew you were in Wyoming, because I—we saw you on television. The bull rides were televised. But by the time we got word to you, you were gone.”

She didn’t want to talk about that day, and knew Colt wouldn’t, either. That morning she’d found Doff passed on in his armchair, and that evening she watched Colt take the hardest toss she’d ever seen, off the back of the bull and into the wall. The bull had charged after him and dug a horn into Colt’s back. She’d thought she was witnessing the death of the entire Bonner family, then.

But the announcer said, as they carried Colt out of the ring on a stretcher, that he’d just had the wind knocked out of him. And though she was sorry for the circumstances, her heart had leapt at the knowledge that Colt was finally coming home.

Except, he hadn’t come home. She, Toby Haskell and Luke Tanner, Colt’s best friends, had buried Doff Bonner. Two months passed, and this was the first any of them had seen of Colt.

“I got your message,” Colt said shortly. “I was tied up at the time. Couldn’t get away.”

Becca nodded. “Have you been to the cemetery yet? We picked out a marker, I hope you approve of it. We didn’t know what—”

“I’m sure it’s fine. How’s your leg?”

She smoothed her skirt and looked down at the ugly red scrape and gaping hole in her hosiery. Lovely. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” If she left right now, she might be able to get away without adding another insult to her injury. Why, she asked herself, did she still have this ridiculous crush on Colt Bonner? He wasn’t that good-looking.

Liar, she answered herself.

“I’ve got to go,” she said firmly. “If you need anything, just give me a call.” She limped down the steps.

“Becca—”

She turned her head, and he was there, close. Before she could react, he kissed her.

It was warm and soft and firm, invasive and overwhelming and delicious, all at once. And over before she knew how to react. He drew his head back, his eyes unreadable. If she hadn’t just felt his lips against hers, she would almost believe it hadn’t happened.

She touched a finger to her lips. “Why did you do that?” The question came with the thought, and she immediately wished she hadn’t voiced it.

He was silent for a long time, his face closed. “Because I’m a damn fool, I suppose.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just said, “Oh.”

Not her most brilliant response, but then, the past ten minutes had been one big blow to her ego, so why worry about it now? She moved to the bottom step of the porch and smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Yes, well—”

“Look, Becca.” He put his hand high on the porch rail, and his undershirt rode up slightly. Becca caught herself staring at the sight of his flat stomach peeking from underneath. You’d think I’d been brought up on a planet without men, she thought. Feeling her cheeks grow warm, she dragged her eyes back to his.

“I appreciate your coming over here. But I really don’t have time to be…well, I’m just going to get this dump livable again and get the hell out of Aloma County. I don’t really want to be around anyone right now.”

She heard the hum of a motor, and looked up to see dirt billow as the sheriff of Aloma County drove down the dirt road.

“It looks like you’re not going to get your wish. There’s Toby Haskell. Sorry, Colt. You have people who care about you here, whether you want them to or not.” She gave him a sad smile. “I’ll go so you two can catch up.”

Colt’s eyes focused on the sheriff’s Jeep pulling up in front of the house. He took a deep breath as if to brace himself, and nodded, not looking at her. “Yeah. I’ll see you later.”

Becca drove down the road seconds later, watching in her rearview mirror as the men pounded on each other in welcome. Despite the obviously jovial meeting, she couldn’t help but wonder what would make a man need to brace himself for a reunion with an old friend.

“Hoss!” Toby grabbed Colt’s hand and pulled him into a bear hug, thumping him on the back. “It’s about time you got your scrawny carcass back to Aloma.”

Colt pulled away with a wince and patted Toby on the stomach. “Can’t call you scrawny, can we? Matter of fact, you’re getting downright plump. So you’re the sheriff now, huh? How’d a clown like you manage that one?”

“My stunning good looks and charming personality,” Toby answered with a shrug and a grin. “Becca told me you got in last night.”

“I figured I couldn’t be in town for fifteen minutes before some busybody alerted the law.”

“Becca’s not a busybody. Hell, I wish there were more people like her in this county. She just got into the habit of looking out for the place, that’s all. She kept an eye on your dad, before…before—”

“Before he died,” Colt said flatly.

“Yeah,” Toby said quietly with a nod. “She brought him groceries, made sure his electricity didn’t get cut off, made sure he didn’t burn the house down.”

“Or drink himself to death,” Colt muttered. “Doff needed someone to look after him. He sure didn’t do it for himself— How about something to drink? It’s hot out here.”

The men crossed the cracked linoleum floor into the kitchen. Colt looked around. “I forgot, all Doff had on hand was coffee. And Wild Turkey.” He held up the coffeepot and cocked an eyebrow.

Toby nodded and picked up a cup from the counter. He eyed it, then turned on the faucet and rinsed the inside. “Times like these, I’m glad I’m not a bachelor anymore.” He held the cup out, and Colt poured. “That was Becca who was just leaving, right? She’s changed a lot, huh? She’s gorgeous now.”

“She was always pretty.”

“How could you tell? She always wore those thick glasses, always had her head ducked down so you couldn’t even see her face. But the past few years…she’s changed a lot. Come out of her shell, I guess.” He shook his head. “If I weren’t such a happily married man…”

“Bull,” Colt scoffed. “You never had eyes for anyone except Corinne, since we were seven years old. I heard you two finally got married. Congratulations.”

Toby grinned. “Thanks. Took us ten years, but we finally did it. How about you? I know you’re still riding the bulls, but did you ever find anyone who would settle for you, anyway?”

Colt ducked his head and decided to change the subject. “Nah,” he said simply. “What about Luke? He still hanging around?”

“Hell, he’s my deputy now.”

“You’re kidding.” Colt laughed. “You and Luke Tanner in charge of the law and order around here? I guess he’s probably settled down, too.”

“Nah, he’s still hounddogging all the ladies. Teases me about getting old and fat, too. Man, it’s good to see you, Hoss.”

Colt took a step back and frowned. “You’re not going to hug me again, are you?”

“I’m not that glad to see you. I’m real proud of you, man. One more win and you take Doff’s record. The whole town’s kept up with your career, you know, watching the bull riding competitions on television. But it’s not the same as having you here. I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances.” He nodded vaguely at the filthy, broken-down house around them.

“Yeah” was all Colt said. “I got the message. I just, uh, I just couldn’t really turn loose of my schedule right then. You want some more coffee?”

“Hell, no, not this sludge. So,” Toby said, slapping his hands together and rubbing his palms, “how long are you staying?”

Colt shrugged. “A few weeks. I plan on selling the place, so I have a few things to fix before I can put it on the market.” He looked around the kitchen, at the torn linoleum, the cabinet door hanging on one hinge, the bare lightbulb sagging from the stained ceiling. “A few weeks. Maybe a month.”

“Great. The longer it takes, the longer you’ll be around. Right now, I have to get back to the station. Corinne made a coffee cake this morning, and Tanner is liable to eat the whole thing before I get back.”

“Yeah, if you don’t have your afternoon snack, you might dry up and blow away.” Colt eyed Toby’s belly as he walked by.

“Say what you like. Corinne thinks I’m sexy. And she’s a hell of a lot prettier than you are.”

“And more diplomatic. Tell her I said hi.” He followed Toby back to the Jeep.

“Tell her yourself. Come by the house and have dinner with us.”

“Sure,” Colt said, looking down the road.

“If I have to hog-tie you to get you there, I will,” Toby promised, pulling on his hat.

“I’ll be there. Just give me a few days to get things going around here.”

“Tanner and I are already planning our first poker game.”

Colt grinned. “Good. I can pick up a few extra bucks.”

“We don’t play for money anymore, being the responsible pillars of the community that we are now.”

“Corinne put a stop to it, huh?”

Toby shrugged. “She said it was ‘morally reprehensible’ of me to be engaging in illegal acts while I was the elected sheriff. Corruption of power and all that. So now we play for Tootsie Rolls.”

Colt laughed and shook his head. For the first time he was actually a little glad he was back in Aloma. Friendship…he’d forgotten what it tasted like. “Okay, whatever. I’ll still win.”

Toby opened the door to his Jeep and shrugged. “Probably. Of the three of us, you’re the only one with a poker face. Listen, go over and see Becca while you’re here, okay?”

“She already asked me over for dinner tonight. I told her no.”

“Then, change your mind.”

“Why?”

Toby turned the key. “No reason, except she looked after your old man and you owe her. She cared about Doff, even though he was an ass to her.”

“I can’t imagine anyone wanting to be around Doff for more than five minutes.”

“Becca likes to take care of people.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Colt said, looking pointedly at Toby.

Toby grinned. “So let her take care of you a little. It’ll make her happy.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing a lot of socializing while I was here.”

“You never planned on socializing, Hoss. If you ever went to a party, it was because I dragged you. And I’ll do it again if I have to. Go have dinner with Becca.” He put the Jeep into reverse and tugged his hat low. “It’s your duty. A home-cooked meal with a pretty woman. Not a bad deal, as duties go.”

In the end, it wasn’t duty or Toby’s request that made Colt decide to go to Becca’s house. He was simply sick of his own company. He’d been angry with Doff for two months—actually, it was more like two decades—and coming back to see the mess the old man had left him just angered him more. His nerves hummed like live wires all day, and work had done nothing to take the edge off.

Anger had always been his tool, something he pulled out of his pocket and swallowed down before he climbed onto the back of a bull. Thinking about Doff before a ride could get his blood pumping and his nerve sharp. The determined adrenaline stayed with him through the ride.

But out here, there was nothing to climb on and ride the anger out. He’d been practically vibrating with it, until the moment he looked over his shoulder to see a pretty woman standing in his front yard. And in that moment, a thought had popped into his head.

Now, I could ride that.

He almost laughed to think what prim and proper Becca Danvers would think about that. She’d actually invited him to do so, a lifetime ago. Of course, she wouldn’t have offered if she hadn’t been stone drunk, and she obviously didn’t remember the incident.

But it wasn’t that memory that had him knocking off work earlier than he’d planned. What Toby had said, about Doff being an ass to Becca, kept running through his mind. Of course, Doff was an ass to everyone. But Becca, being Becca, had turned the other cheek and kept coming back. She had come today, and he had been barely a notch or two above jerk-level to her.

He’d spent his whole life—or at least his adulthood—proving to himself he was better than that washed-up drunk. But times like these, he cursed Doff because he knew he carried some of dear old Dad’s quality traits. Like picking on those weaker than himself.

So it was a guilty conscience and determination to prove he wasn’t the jackass Doff had been that had him searching for a bar of soap in a filthy house. He took one look at the bathtub and decided he’d have better luck with the water hose in the backyard.

Half an hour later, his blood cooled to the point of civility by his makeshift cold shower, he pulled on clean jeans and a shirt and headed across the field to fulfill his “duty.”

Chapter 2

Becca flipped the stick of graphite between her fingers and used the wide edge to shade the bell of the wedding dress on her sketch pad. Her brow furrowed as much in consternation as concentration, she tried to ignore the voice that echoed spitefully through her head.

Haven’t changed a bit to me.

She closed her eyes and blew a gust of breath at her bangs. Of course, he was right. Oh, she’d worked hard to change her outward appearance. And at the risk of sounding vain, she’d made some major improvements. But then, there had been a lot to improve upon.

Trust Colt to see right through the new hairstyle, the hours spent at the makeup counter at the department store learning how to make the most of her “natural attributes,” the constant inner reminder to hold her chin up, to look people in the eye, to speak clearly.

Trust Colt to see immediately what she had forgotten. That she was really, underneath it all, still the same old Becca Danvers.

Who had she thought she was kidding? Certainly not herself, though she’d tried hard enough. She’d tried this morning, when she pulled her special-occasion-only suit out of the closet, telling herself there was no sense in owning a power suit if it never saw the light of day. And again this afternoon, when she stopped by Dottie’s Nails & More for the second manicure of her life. And even this afternoon when she’d actually looked herself in the eye in the rearview mirror and said, “I believe I’ll just stop by and see if Colt Bonner needs anything.” As if she hadn’t been planning it from the moment she saw him pull up in front of his house.

She’d deserved what she got, too, she decided as she dropped the graphite stick on the tray in disgust. She tucked her feet up on the stool and examined the red scrape on her shin. Her power suit was back in the closet where it would be until the next open house at school. Her demolished Silky Sheer Precious Ivories were wadded in the wastebasket. She’d come home, humiliated, and changed into flannel boxers and a white tank top.

She gathered her hair into a ponytail and wound it on top of her head, jabbing a pencil into the mass to hold it in place. It had been a long time since she’d felt like such a fool. But then, it had been a long time since she’d tried to be something she wasn’t.

She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, the cold air chilling her bare toes. At least she no longer had to waste hours of her life, imagining ridiculous scenes of how Colt would react when he saw her again. At least she no longer had to wake up at night visualizing something out of a movie—Colt taking one look at her, being instantly bedazzled and setting out in pursuit of her like a man possessed.

He’d seen her—and been terrifically underwhelmed. And in her power suit and manicure, no less!

She pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and told herself again that it served her right. What was she expecting? That when Colt realized it was she standing there, he would confess that he’d traveled the world in an attempt to get her out of his mind, that he couldn’t forget the taste of her, the feel of her? And that now that he’d come to her again, he would never let her go?

Come on.

She frowned and poured a big glass of tea. Okay, so maybe that was a little over the top, even for her. But would it have killed him to say she looked nice?

But she had learned the lesson years ago and, except for this one crucial day when, apparently, she was hell-bent on humiliating herself, she’d lived by the wisdom of it.

She bent and made a face at her reflection in the chrome toaster. “Accept who you are,” she said firmly. “Accept what you are.”

“What was it trying to be? A can opener?”

Becca shrieked, jerked and spun. She splashed frigid iced tea all over herself at the same moment she saw Colt standing at her open kitchen window.

She tried to draw breath to speak, but all she could manage was a series of shallow gasps and then a noise that came out sounding like “Uhhuhhh.”

“Sorry. Did I scare you?”

She nodded, openmouthed.

“I only meant to surprise you.”

“Yes, well…you did that, too.” She finally got some air into her lungs and stepped up to the screen.

“Cold, huh?”

To his credit, Colt did make an attempt to hide the grin that crept up his cheeks.

She nodded again. “What are you doing here?”

“You invited me, remember?”

“Yes, and I—I also remember you declined.”

“I reconsidered. Is the offer still open?”

“Of course it is.”

“Um, Becca?”

She cocked a brow.

“That was really cold tea, wasn’t it.”

“Yes.” Hadn’t he already asked that? She looked down and wished this time for the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Her white tank top—now virtually transparent—tented out under the hard buds of her nipples.

She grabbed at the shirt with both hands and pulled it away far enough that he could probably see down the neck as well. “I’ll just—I’ll just go change.” She backed away, picturing how she must look with her pencil-eraser nipples, scraped shin and gaping mouth. Quite lovely, to be sure. She kept backing, and bumped into the doorjamb.

“That’d probably be a good idea,” he said.

“The front door’s unlocked. Make yourself at home. I’ll just be a second.”

In her bedroom she stripped down to her underwear, wondering what had changed his mind. Certainly it hadn’t been her cool, sophisticated poise. And he’d told her to her face that her looks hadn’t made an impression. That left the power suit and the Precious Ivories. Or maybe it was the ingenious way she had of falling through his porch that won him over.

One day back in town and the man already had her mind twisted in knots. She didn’t know what to think about that kiss. In fact, every time her mind even barely brushed up against the thought of it, she got even more confused. So she told herself she just wouldn’t think about it. Which, of course, she recognized as a lie as soon as she thought it. She hadn’t forgotten their last kiss, and that had been twelve years ago. She could still feel his hands and lips on hers, without even trying. The kiss today hadn’t shared that same unharnessed passion, but it did share the same barrier-shaking intimacy.

She walked into the adjoining bath and wiped off her midriff with a warm washcloth. She caught her reflection in the mirror, and her hand slowed, then stopped. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes as bright as if she had a raging fever.

Why was she doing this to herself? What was it going to take for her to learn?

She’d worked hard to build her self-esteem. It had taken years of conscious effort for her to accept herself, to even like herself. It had not been easy; she had a lifetime of feeling like a freak to wipe away. But she’d done it. And now she was champing at the bit to let it be brushed aside by a few careless remarks and a kiss that obviously meant nothing to Colt.

She put her palms on the counter and faced her reflection sternly. It was time to be perfectly honest. The truth was, she’d always had a bit of a soft spot for Colt. Okay, a big soft spot. A ridiculous crush, in fact. And maybe a part of her had always wondered whether if she looked different, and acted differently, he would see her differently. Less as the weirdo girl who lived down the road and made up stories to tell him when they were kids. Less as the bookish wallflower in high school, and more as…well, as more.

But the fact was—aside from falling through his porch and splashing iced tea all over herself—she hadn’t done anything overwhelmingly embarrassing. At least she hadn’t thrown herself at him—again. And if there was a God in the sky, Colt would not remember that night and she could go on pretending it had never happened.

The only real injury today had been to her pride, and she was an old hat at rebuilding that. So there was no reason she could not go out there as Colt’s old friend, have dinner with him, catch up on old times, and act like a normal person. If she stopped behaving like an imbecile right this second.

Whatever had changed Colt’s mind about dinner, it surely involved little more than an empty stomach. And if she had any brains at all—which she knew she did; they were in there somewhere—she would go out there and quit reading something into every little move he made. She would relax and enjoy herself.

Just to prove to them both that she really didn’t care if Colt found her attractive or not, she left her hair piled in a messy nest on top of her head. She dragged on baggy sweatpants, topped off with a T-shirt that announced “Math is Power.” Then she faced her reflection again and nodded. Now, there was a woman who was truly comfortable with herself, in all her nerdiness.

When she went back to the kitchen, though, he wasn’t there to test her indifference. Neither was he in the living room. She slumped against the arm of the sofa and made a face. She scared him off already. This had to be a new record for her—

“This is really good. Did you do it?”

She grinned. He was in her office.

He stood in front of the mural she’d painted on the south wall, his thumbs in his back pockets.

“Yes, I did it.”

“It’s great. When I came in I thought it was a real window.”

“Yes, well, the light is dim. Of course, if it were a real window, the light would not be dim,” she said inanely. She flipped the light switch and moved to stand beside him, noting the way his hair, still damp from his shower, curled at the back of his neck.

“This is incredible. You’ve caught it all, just as if there was a window here.” He reached up to trace a blunt finger over the telephone pole beside the dirt road, the tumbleweeds built up along the barbed-wire fence.

“Thank you.”

“It’s great.” He turned to face her. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“If you were just going to paint what’s really there— I mean, it’s really good and everything—but if you were just going to paint what you would see if there was a window there, why not just put in a window?”

“I turned out to be a lot handier with a paintbrush than I am with a saw.”

“You could get someone else to do it. I’d do it, if you want. It’d take about half a day—”

“I don’t want. Why would I want you to destroy my mural? It took me months to finish. And besides,” she said with a sniff, “this is far superior to an actual window. It never needs cleaning. It won’t let in dust, no matter how hard the wind blows. And if I ever get the urge to move, all I have to do is drag out the brushes and paints.”

“But seriously, Becca, you could have the real thing.”

“And look at this—” Ignoring him, she stepped up to point out the giant mulberry tree. “This is the tree that grows beside the elementary school. You remember that tree, out at the west edge of the playground?”

“Sure, I remember. I stared at it all the way through the third grade, wishing I was out in that tree instead of inside trying to figure out fractions.”

“I used to sit under it and read all through recess.”

“I remember. You sat on this root right here, the big one that grew up through the sidewalk.”

She looked at him and blinked. Told herself there was nothing touching or heartwarming about his remembering her in elementary school. They had, after all, been friends. Just friends. “Yes, well…” She scratched under her ear. “I wanted it in my window here. So I put it here.”

“You could plant a mulberry tree, you know. You could have a real tree and a real window.”

“Not a tree that’s thirty feet tall and has branches thick enough to swing from and roots big enough to sit on.”

“Well, not for a while.”

“Admit it. My window is superior.”

Colt shook his head. “If you say so.” He looked up at the stand of mesquites that bordered the quarry in the distance. “But doesn’t it bother you that it’s just…just pretend?”

She faced him and smiled. For the first time since he’d pulled up to his house, she didn’t have to tell herself she was glad to see her old friend. She didn’t have to remind herself that she cared for him as the person she’d grown up with, had once been close to. She didn’t have to remind herself, because she just was.

“No,” she said simply. “It’s real enough for me.”

“But I’m telling you, in a matter of hours—”

“Still the same old Colt. Always ready to rip everything apart and put it back together again.”

He rubbed his chin and nodded. “Well, I suppose I come by the urge to knock holes in things honestly enough. But you have no room to talk, you know. You haven’t changed that much, either.”

She focused on the bird’s nest she’d added in the crutch of the telephone pole, and told herself she didn’t care. “I know,” she said quietly.

“Oh, don’t get mad. I’m not talking about your looks. Sure, you look a lot better with your hair all—” He made a vague motion in the general direction of her head. “All up and out of your face. At least people can see how pretty your face is now. And you dress better, that’s for damn sure. But I’m talking about the way you always felt just fine living in your little fantasy world. If you couldn’t have what you wanted, you just pretended like you did. Or pretended like you didn’t want it.” He shook his head and stepped back. “That always confused the hell out of me.”

Since she couldn’t have spoken coherently to save her soul, Becca just stared at him.

“What’s this?” he asked, pointing at the drawing on her easel. “Your idea of the perfect pretend couple?”

Becca cleared her throat and blinked, moving around to face the easel. “Not hardly,” she said. “This is a drawing I’m doing for Dunleavy’s Department Store ads.” She picked up the graphite stick and fiddled a little with the guy’s tux. “They’re far from perfect.”

Colt grunted. “The guy looks like a real wuss.”

“Oh, he is.” She motioned to the bride with her chin. “She’s got him completely whipped.”

“Probably reads his horoscope daily and has his remote controls color-coded. His chin is weak.”

Becca grabbed her eraser. Within a few minutes the groom’s chin could have broken granite. “That’s better. But still, he’s not quite…” She picked up her thinner pencil and sharpened it. A few strokes later, the groom had a thin scar threading below his eye.

“Bar fight?” Colt asked.

“An unfortunate accident with the weed trimmer. He keeps an immaculate lawn, you know. Won an award from the neighborhood association.”

She glanced at Colt and saw that he was grinning. A real grin—not the one he dragged out that was supposed to make people think everything was okay.

She tapped the pencil against her chin. “I know what’s missing.” She stepped up to block Colt’s view and spent a few moments working on the groom’s hair. With a satisfied sigh she stepped back. “One lock of hair, falling rakishly over his forehead.”

“Rakishly?”

“It’s a word. There now. The perfect groom.”

“And that’s the standard? Rakish hair?”

“Of course. A lock of hair falling rakishly over the forehead signals the perfect balance of vulnerability and masculinity. Very sexy, don’t you think?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t really do anything for me. Sorry. What are we going to do about her?”

Becca sighed. “There’s not a lot we can do, unfortunately. The dress is far too frou-frou my taste. But since the dress is the whole reason for the ad, it’s got to stay— I’m going to start dinner. Hungry?”

“Always. What are we having?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I know. Your hesitation has cost you one of my world-famous lasagnas, I’m afraid. I don’t have time now. But I’ll dig up something.”

“Are these yours, too?” He motioned to canvases stacked against the wall.

She nodded.

“Mind if I take a look?”

Actually, the idea held the same level of appeal as if he’d asked to look through her underwear drawer. But since she couldn’t think of a logical reason to tell him no, she simply nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Colt watched her go, chewing the inside of his lip. He still couldn’t decide if it had been a good idea to come over here tonight. The live wire of anger still fizzled in him. He’d even argued with her over her painting on the wall, though she hadn’t seemed to mind. She didn’t seem to mind anything, really.

But then, that was Becca. Everything pretty much rolled off her back, always had. He was still a little disappointed she hadn’t made it out of Aloma. Not surprised, but a little disappointed, for her. He figured that night twelve years ago was the only time she’d ever allowed herself to admit that she had dreams, that she wanted more than what she had.

He flipped through the stack of canvases, remembering the last night he’d seen her, the night of high school graduation. She’d been desperate to get out of town then, desperate to get away from her mother. Desperate enough to offer herself to him as a way out.

He cleared his throat as that particular memory took its effect on him. On more than one occasion he’d regretted the necessity of telling her no that night. No to taking her with him, and no to taking her to bed. But it didn’t take a genius to know he’d made the right decision. Still, if things had been different…

If things had been different, she wouldn’t have given up and resigned herself to a lonely life in the back of nowhere. And he wouldn’t be here cleaning up after the mess of a drunken bum.

He let the stack of canvases fall back against the wall, sick of his own thoughts. It was the real reason he’d come over, he reminded to himself. He was tired of his own company. And Becca was one hell of an improvement.

She didn’t hear him step up to the kitchen door. She stood at the counter slicing mushrooms, humming softly to herself. Her slender bare feet poked out beneath the shapeless sweats, and she reached up to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen and lay at her neck.

Colt stepped up to her and pulled at the pencil that held her hair up. “What’s this—uh-oh,” he said as her hair came tumbling down. “Sorry.”

Her hair fell, and his hand fisted loosely in it. Becca looked at him over her shoulder, and for a moment their eyes met, and held. Colt rubbed the slippery strands of hair between his fingers, then shifted his hand to cup the back of her neck. The cords of it felt fine and delicate beneath his fingers. Her eyes grew wide—dark green pools that looked bigger now that they weren’t hidden behind glasses. For an intense flash, Colt remembered what it had been like to kiss her, to have her on his lap, offering him everything. His eyes drifted down to her lips and watched them part almost imperceptibly.

Then she drew away, smoothing back her hair. “That’s okay,” she said. She fumbled with it, then finally let it drift loose down her back. She looked at the counter, the piles of chopped vegetables in front of her, anywhere but at him. “I hope omelettes are okay.”

“Anything sounds good to me right now,” he said. “Been a while since I’ve had a decent meal at all.”

He leaned back against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest. What the hell had that been about?

Becca continued to move around the kitchen, chattering as if the moment hadn’t happened, chopping her vegetables. He hadn’t meant to scare her. But then, he hadn’t really meant to touch her. He had to admit, though, it had felt nice.

The last time he’d seen Becca, she’d been sitting on his lap, kissing him almost past the point of no return. It was hard to look at her now and not think of that night. He had assumed all these years that she wouldn’t remember; she’d been pretty drunk. But the look in her eye had him wondering.

He picked up the hunk of cheddar she’d set out, and the grater in the dish drainer, and began grating cheese into a bowl. “So, I thought you were going to Paris?”

“Who told you that?”

“You did, graduation night. You said you were going to New York to art school, then to Paris, because that was where all artists went.”

Becca made a show of concentrating on the eggs she was beating. She poured them into the hot skillet and tilted the pan to let the eggs spread evenly. “I said a lot of things that night. People do that when they’re drunk. They blather.”

“Sure they do,” he allowed. “And sometimes being drunk makes them relax enough to really speak the truth.”

“I wouldn’t know. That was the first and last time I ever enjoyed that particular experience— Do you like mushrooms?”

He nodded, and she sprinkled them in, along with a bit of chopped ham. She took the bowl of cheese from him and dribbled cheese in, too.

“So, what happened?”

“You know what happened. I didn’t get accepted into the art school. I believe I told you that.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

She looked at him then, and her face went still. “You do remember, don’t you. I was hoping you didn’t.”

“It’s not the kind of night a guy is likely to forget.” He couldn’t help the grin that started to creep up.

She mumbled something and turned back to her omelette, folding it over with a spatula.

“I figured you wouldn’t remember,” he said. “You were pretty wasted.”

“You don’t know women that well, Colt. Our most humiliating moments are the ones we remember most clearly. Wasted or not.”

She slid the omelette onto a plate and returned to work on the next, not looking at him.

“It wasn’t humiliating,” he said. “At least, it shouldn’t have been.”

“Come on, Colt. I acted like a fool.” She faced him, one hand gripping the spatula, the other on her hip. “I practically begged you to take me away with you. And I—I…” She sighed and turned back to the pan. “You know what I did.”

Oh, yeah. He knew.

He stepped up and took the plate she held out to him. He wanted to touch her again, but got the feeling he’d get a fork speared in his hand if he tried. Instead he rooted around until he found the silverware drawer, and carried two forks and knives to the small table in the dining room.

Becca followed with a tray containing her own plate, a smaller one with a stack of toast, two glasses and a pitcher of orange juice. Her face was flushed, but he didn’t think it came from standing over a hot omelette pan. He decided the gentlemanly thing would be to change the subject.

“The house looks nice. You’ve done a lot with it.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you do all the work yourself?”

“What I could. I had this window enlarged, and I hired Pete Huckaby to do it. He moved to Aloma after you left, I think. He just finished a few months ago. And there was some plumbing that needed to be redone, which I couldn’t do, of course.”

She tore off a bit of toast, but he noticed she didn’t eat it. She looked around the room.

“It was mostly cosmetic work. Paint and paper, and changing the furnishings. But it makes a lot of difference.”

He forked a bite of omelette and studied her as he chewed, thinking of the “cosmetic work” she’d done to herself. “Yeah, it makes a difference in the appearance. But underneath, it’s still the same house.”

She faced him head-on, and he knew from the steely glint that came into her green eyes that she caught on immediately. He knew, and was impressed when he saw her chin lift.

“Yes, it is. But then, the house was basically a good house, solid and strong. All it needed was cosmetic work and a little attention to make it a home again. So why not take it and make it into the home I always knew it could be?” She lifted one brow and almost defiantly stuffed a forkful of omelette in her mouth.

And for some inexplicable reason, that made him want to jump across the table and kiss her.

Instead, he just grinned and shrugged. “No reason I can think of.” He looked around at the design she’d painted on the dining room wall; deep green vines and morning glory climbing over a trellis. She was right—it did feel more like a home than it ever had when old lady Danvers lived here with all her dark, stuffy furniture.

“So you decided to just paint the house instead of painting the world.”

“I paint,” she said defensively. “I haven’t bowled the art world over with my talent the way I’d planned, but I do paint. And you saw the ads I draw for Dunleavy’s. That actually pays a little.”

“I suppose that’s enough, then.”

She glared at him, then sighed. “Yes, Colt, it’s enough. I didn’t go out and set the world on fire like you did, but it’s fine. I have a good life. And my painting may be more of a hobby than a profession, but it’s still mine.” She closed her eyes for a second, then shook her head and looked at him again. “Nothing works out the way you think it’s going to when you’re eighteen, Colt. At least, it hasn’t for me. But that’s okay. You know, when I think about it, not one thing has changed since that night in your pickup, and yet everything has changed. I’m a different person now, even though I’m still the smart girl who helps everybody with their algebra homework. I just get paid for it now. My life hasn’t changed that much on the surface. I’m still in Aloma, still in the same house, still a—”

She broke off with a sharp intake of breath. She clamped her mouth shut and looked at him with wide eyes, her cheeks flushing. He thought for a second she was choking, but she’d just gone very, very still.

And in that moment the thought followed itself through in his head. He dropped his fork to his plate and gaped at her.

“Becca, don’t tell me you’re still a virgin?”

Chapter 3

He shouldn’t have laughed, he decided later. He was justified in being surprised, even shocked. She’d just admitted to being a thirty-year-old virgin, for Pete’s sake. Surprise was to be expected.

But really, he should not have laughed.

The clock on the wall behind him had ticked loudly in the silence that had echoed his question. She’d sat, her face flushed, and stared back at him. As soon as it dawned on him what she’d just said, or had tried not to say, he felt a grin start to build like he hadn’t felt in a very, very long time.

Becca Danvers, with her sweet kisses and carefully banked desires, was still untouched.

The thought had filled him with so much pleasure, in fact, that he laughed. Out loud.

He wasn’t laughing now.

Now he was trying unsuccessfully to stop the scene of the previous night from replaying itself in his head. Now he was working like a demon, hauling off old furniture and ripping rotten carpet from the floor of Doff’s house, in the hopes that hard work would erase the memory of Becca, her face a mask of complete humiliation, from his mind.

It wasn’t working.

Colt stood and rubbed at his aching back, surveying the damage he’d done to the house today, and thinking about the damage he’d done to Becca last night.

Many times over the years he’d imagined what it would have been like if he hadn’t turned Becca down when she offered him her virginity. Imagined it in vivid, Technicolor detail. But he’d assumed, of course, that someone else had eventually taken what he’d declined.

“Stop looking at me like I’m some kind of freak,” she’d said as she stabbed her fork in her omelette.

He couldn’t help himself, though. The only coherent words he’d been able to form, after he regained his voice, were, “How the hell did that happen?”

“It’s actually a matter of something not happening, Colt.”

She’d sniffed and swallowed, and he felt like a jerk. But still, the thought kept running through his head that no one had touched her. No other man had touched her. And the urge to laugh again welled dangerously close to the surface.

It was a wonder she hadn’t tossed him out on his butt. But then, that was Becca. Even when she was humiliated—or thought she was—she maintained that cool pride. It might have hurt to think he was laughing at her, but she’d manage to get over it quickly enough.

Even so, the memory felt sour in his stomach today. “Are the guys around here nuts?” he asked the empty room. He got a rumble in response, and noticed for the first time that the light outside had grown dim. He crossed the room and looked out the window; storm clouds were building in the west.

“Damn it.” He rubbed the small of his back and contemplated his options. He’d decided to tear out the old carpet—it was filthy and had probably been butt-ugly even when it was new—and refinish the wood floors underneath rather than replace it. The gleam of polished wood would help sell the house, but it was hell on his back.

It was a habit now to curse Doff when the pain in his back got bad. The pain was going to force him to call it quits for the day. His career was hanging by a thread as it was; he wasn’t going to jeopardize his recovery—and his chance to beat Doff—for the old man’s mess.

The thing was, he was loath to stay in the house one second more than necessary. He ate his meals, and even slept, on the back porch. With the rain coming, he wouldn’t be able to hang out there. And he sure as hell wasn’t staying in Doff’s house.

He didn’t realize he’d focused on the hole in the living room wall until he’d stared at it for several minutes. He’d put that hole there a dozen years ago. The last time he’d been in this house. The last time he’d seen Doff.

He reached for a cigarette, cursed again when he remembered he’d quit two months ago, and walked slowly into the kitchen. Out of spite—whether to himself or to Doff he didn’t know—he turned back to the living room and stared again at the hole in the wall.

Doff had been three-quarters of his way into a bender the day Colt walked home from a two-day stint in the county jail—another pleasant memory for his mental scrapbook, courtesy of Doff Bonner. The old man had been happy to gloat over Colt’s time behind the bars, had thought it was a good way to teach him a lesson. He’d been too drunk and giddy to coherently say exactly what lesson Colt was supposed to learn from going to jail over something that was Doff’s fault.

But Colt felt that he had, indeed, learned his lesson. If he was old enough to go to jail, he was old enough to stand up to Doff.

Maybe he shouldn’t have egged Doff on, Colt had thought since then. Maybe he should just have told the old fart to shut up, and kept walking. But something in him wanted revenge. So he stood up to him. Told the old man how being in jail was a damn sight more fun than being in the rat hole they lived in. How his friends had come up to the jail and played cards with him. How the sheriff’s wife—Toby’s mother, back then—had taken pity on him and baked more food than he could possibly eat.

That hadn’t been enough to coax more than a little frustration out of Doff, though. Colt found that once the hateful flow of words started, he couldn’t stop them. Or maybe he could have, but it made him feel powerful to be the one hurling the abuse for a change.

So he kept it up. Told the old man all the things he’d wanted to say for eighteen years. Told Doff what a sorry bum he’d always been, how Colt hated him and was ashamed of him. Still it wasn’t enough to make Doff unleash that fury that was usually so close to the surface.

So Colt pulled out the one weapon he knew he had.

“You’re a joke, and always have been. World Champion bull rider, my foot. You cheated. Everyone knows you bought the vote. Even today you’re the biggest joke on the circuit.”

That had done it. As soon as Colt saw Doff’s fist coming at him, he knew that was what he’d been pushing for. And he swung back.

He should have known what would happen. He outweighed the old man by a good forty pounds, and all of it muscle. And he had eighteen years of being on the receiving end of the punch. He had plenty stored up to unleash.

Doff crashed into the wall, so hard he knocked a hole in it. He’d slumped to the floor, his hands up in defense instead of attack, and looked up at Colt, fear in his eyes.

That was the last time Colt had seen his father. The shame had grabbed him by the throat in that moment and had not let go. He hated Doff Bonner for making him what he was, hated him for teaching him to use his fists as weapons. Hated him for giving him the knowledge of what it was like to be on both sides of that equation.

And hated himself for following in dear old Dad’s footsteps.

He’d run. Run from the house, into town and straight to the Haskell’s house, which was the closest thing to a home he’d ever known. He’d tried to run from the shame, but it was always there, in the memory of a pitiful old man’s fearful eyes and trembling hands.

Of course the bum hadn’t patched up the hole. Doff probably didn’t even notice it, in his constant drunken state. But that was okay with Colt. He didn’t need the past to be patched up and glossed over. He would leave that hole there until it was the finishing touch on the house. Because the ache was like a sore tooth, and he needed to know it was there. He needed to remember.

He paced, edgy. The room had darkened with his mood, and he stood in front of the window, watching clouds build on the horizon.

It irritated him that his injured back slowed him down, and resentment made him want to work harder. But he knew that, for today at least, he was done.

He walked out to the back porch, a fresh wind stirring the grass. The ball of rage that sat constantly in his gut—sometimes a dull glow, sometimes a hot flame—flared as lightning slashed a vertical rip in the sky a few miles away. Once again, Doff had the last laugh. Colt had been close—so close—to beating Doff’s record, to proving he was the better man, the better athlete, when he’d been tossed from Rascal’s back. He could swear that in his dying moment Doff had possessed Rascal’s body and dug that horn into his back, just to get in the last word. Thunder rolled overhead, and the temperature of the wind dropped noticeably. It chilled the sweat on Colt’s neck and tossed his hair. Lightning cracked. He could see the rain line just a few miles away now.

It wasn’t much of a surprise that his mind drifted south, to Becca’s house. He’d heard her car drive by a few hours ago, when she came home from school. He could go there.

He should go there. He’d left things in a bungle last night. But hell, what did she expect, dropping a bomb like that on him? He stuffed his hands in his pockets and scowled. He’d handled the news badly.

But a virgin? He’d known Becca’s life was sheltered, but for crying out loud. How in the world did someone as pretty and sweet as Becca get to be thirty years old and remain a virgin?

Not that he was going to ask her, not after last night. But in his gut he knew he’d made the right choice twelve years ago. It had been hard as hell, but he’d done the right thing by telling her no. She would have ended up hating him.

And that was one thing he didn’t think he could take.

He rubbed his jaw and looked over at her house. She’d turned on the kitchen light, and the welcoming glow caused a shifting somewhere in him, a lump in his throat that he swallowed against.

Funny, he’d forgotten that he’d always gone to Becca, when they were kids. When things got rough with Doff, rougher than normal, and it was either clear out or get killed, he’d always found some way to get to Becca. She’d developed a signal for him to send her, an old tractor tire someone had left out in the fields behind their houses, and he rolled it over by the big cottonwood that bordered her yard. She explained it all like some kind of secret spy adventure, but they both knew it was a desperation call. When things got to be too much, and he needed her, that was his way of calling her.

And she always came. He waited out by the old quarry, pitching stones and dreaming about another life, and she always came. She made up stories to tell him. Nonsense, fanciful tales where kids ruled the world and had all kinds of fantastic adventures conquering demons and trolls. And for a few hours, he forgot what waited for him, and she forgot what waited for her.

So it wasn’t a surprise to find his feet headed across the field that separated their houses. It was an old habit, one that he hadn’t thought about in many, many years, but one that came back to him with ease. Things were getting to be too much, and maybe now he didn’t need her, but he sure as hell wanted to see her again.

Becca laid the stack of papers she had to grade on the table beside her favorite wicker chair on the screened-in porch. Pewter clouds built high in the sky; the storm was only minutes away. She didn’t want to miss it.

Lightning cracked again, thunder rumbled immediately after, and the sky broke. The rain came thick and heavy right away, and immediately the world shrunk down to a few dozen square yards. Her little house was the universe, and she alone lived there. She smiled.

She heard the teakettle shriek on the stove at the same instant she saw the dark gray form moving across the field. She knew it was Colt by the walk, even before she could make out the features.

She opened the porch’s screen door. “Hurry,” she called above the downpour. “You’ll get soaked.”

As he jogged up the steps, she saw that it was too late. His entire body was already streaming with wet.

She stepped back and let him in. “People get killed by lightning, you know. Don’t move. I’ll get a towel.”

She flipped off the burner under the screaming teakettle on her way through the kitchen. In the bathroom she grabbed two towels and a quilt. On the way back outside, she stopped, watching Colt pace up and down her porch. She set the quilt and towels on the kitchen table and took two tea bags from the cabinet. Chamomile and hibiscus. She and Colt could both use the calming.

She tossed the tea bags in a teapot and added boiled water, then tucked the quilt and towels under her arm, kicked the door open with her toe, and carried the hot tea outside.

“Hold these,” she ordered, in the same tone she’d learned to use on errant students.

He took the cups from her, sniffing rainwater off the end of his nose.

She dropped the towels on the chair and took the cups from him. “Okay, strip down and wrap up in this quilt. I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer.”

“No, that’s okay—”

“Colt, you have chill bumps the size of marbles on your arms, and you’re trying so hard not to shiver, you’re about to crack in two. Now strip, and I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer.”

At his hesitation, she raised an eyebrow. “You don’t honestly think this is my way of making a pass at you, do you? I tried that already, remember? Now strip. I’ll wait inside. Lay your clothes on the table inside the door, and knock when you’re decently covered. Okay?”

He gave her a sheepish grin that made her heart do a slow flip, and started working the buttons to his shirt. Becca beat it inside before she made a fool of herself by staring.

He did as he was told. She joined him on the porch a few minutes later, but only after giving in to ridiculous curiosity. Powder-blue boxers.

He sat in her favorite chair, one hand clutching the quilt closed at his neck, the other curled around her china cup. His bare white feet and shins poked out from the bottom. He was doing a pretty good job, she decided, of looking like he didn’t feel ridiculous.

He had toweled his hair, and it stood out in unruly black curls around his head. Becca sat down opposite him and tried not to laugh.

“Okay, want to tell me why you’re here?”

“Just thought I’d stop in and say hello.”

“Sure. In a thunderstorm. I believe that.”

Colt sighed and hitched a shoulder. “I couldn’t get any more work done today, and I couldn’t—didn’t want to just hang around there. And I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“Now there’s an answer I believe.” She sipped her tea, telling herself that it didn’t bother her to be the last resort. What else were friends for? She openly studied the haunted look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath. He hadn’t shaved that morning, either. “It’s hard for you to be in that house,” she said.

He drew his head back. “It isn’t hard. It just hacks me off to have to clean up after his mess.”

“Why don’t you cut your losses, then? You could sell the house like it is, even if it doesn’t bring much. I know you don’t need money. I’ve seen your face endorsing everything from work gloves to shaving cream.”

“No, I don’t need the money.”

“Then, why are you doing it if it makes you so angry that you grind your teeth? Why not just pay someone else to deal with it, and get back to your life?”

“I keep asking myself the same thing.”

He stared at the hot tea cupped between his palms, and she could see his mind working.

Then he said quietly, “I may not have a life to go back to.”

She leaned forward, more alarmed by the tone of his voice than his words. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I banged up my back. I got tossed…”

“By Rascal. At Jackson Hole.”

He nodded.

“I saw on television. The announcer said you’d just had the wind knocked out of you. But I wondered.”

“I asked them not to let anyone know. I didn’t want everyone knowing Doff had done it to me again.”

Again, Becca asked, “What do you mean?”

But instead of answering, he stood and paced, clutching the quilt in front of his chest. “I don’t know for sure that I won’t be able to ride again. There was a surgeon in Portland I went to, and they say he’s really good. He gave me a lot of exercises to do, and I do them—” his upper lip curled “—most of the time. But he said my spine was like a stack of wooden blocks right now. Another toss could put me in a wheelchair. And wouldn’t Doff just love that.”

Becca didn’t know what to say to that, so she sat quietly, letting him talk. And hurt for him.

He stopped and blew out a gust of breath. “So, there’s your answer. The only one I have, anyway. It’s not as if I have a long list of pressing engagements waiting for me elsewhere. Until I get the okay from the doctor, I might as well keep busy. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He stopped, then turned to face her, his brow drawn low. “I don’t know how you do it, Becca. I know you wanted to get away from Aloma as much as I did. But you stayed, here in this house. Doesn’t it all bring back memories that—” He clenched his jaw and made a fist. “That just make you crazy?”

She hadn’t intended to stand, didn’t realize she was doing so until she was before him, one palm against his stubbled cheek. His eyes met hers, and for what felt like a long moment she saw something there, something desperate, and pitifully grateful. And she allowed herself the thought that he was here because she was here.

Then they shifted, and the moment was gone. He took her wrist and pulled her palm away.

“I don’t need your sympathy, Becca. And I don’t want your comfort.”

“What do you want, Colt?”

“I want—” He broke off and looked out at the pouring rain. “Damn it, I wanted revenge.”

“You got your revenge, Colt. You were successful. More successful than he ever dreamed you’d be, I’m sure.”

“I wanted to beat him. And I wanted him to watch me beat him.”

“And that would have made a difference? That would have taken back every hateful thing he ever said? Every punch he ever threw?”

He shook his head and rubbed his jaw. “I guess I’ll never know, now.”

The rain slackened, tapering to a steady pour that patted on the grass beyond the porch. Thunder rolled again, softer and more distant. Inside, she could hear the metallic clink of the buttons on Colt’s jeans as they tumbled in the dryer.

“No. You won’t ever know. Not for sure.”

He turned and leaned against the porch rail. The blanket drooped, and he pulled his arms free and balled it at the center of his chest. “You didn’t answer my question. How can you stay here? Why did you even come back?”

“Mama got sick right before I got out of college. She needed someone to take care of her. I tried hiring people, but she kept running them off.” She tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. “She could be a little hard to get along with at times.”

Colt snorted but refrained from comment.

“So I moved back home and took care of her. When she died, she left the house to me.”

“Didn’t you want to sell it and get the heck out of here?”

“This is my home, Colt. By the time she died, I had a job, friends here. And while I grant you I have a few unpleasant memories of my childhood, they’re really not any worse than the average, I think.”

“Still, when we were kids you said you were going to see the world.”

“Which is a great dream for a kid to have. I’m not a kid anymore, Colt.”

His gaze stayed on hers for a moment, then drifted to her lips and back up again. “Yes, I noticed. Still, you could have—”

“Colt.” Becca laid her hand on Colt’s arm. “Just because you went out and pursued your dreams doesn’t mean it was that easy for the rest of us. For some people it’s just not meant to be.”

“Who decides what’s meant to be? There are always choices.”

“What choice was I supposed to make, Colt? To abandon my own mother? I know she wasn’t easy to get along with. She had problems of her own that made her difficult at times. But she was my mother. She was all I had.”

“And she’s been gone, what—two years now?”

“Almost four,” Becca said quietly.

“Don’t you think it’s time you get a life of your own, instead of—”

“What are you doing, Colt?” She drew a deep breath in through her nose and blinked hard. “Who are you arguing with? Me, or yourself? What is so bad about my life that you feel the need to come in and show me all its flaws? Am I so pathetic that you have to save me from myself before I end up a shriveled old—”

“God, no.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Aw, I’m sorry, Becca. Of course I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean—it’s just that, when you said…” He closed his mouth and frowned.

“When I said I was still a virgin—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard and narrowed her eyes. “When I said I was still a virgin, you decided I had wasted my life and you were going to be the one to shove me into what you think my life should be.”

“I hate to see you end up—”

“An old maid schoolteacher?” She put her hands on her hips and bumped her chin up, taking a few steps back. “I’ve got news for you, Colt. I’m already an old maid schoolteacher. An old maid math teacher at that. Not even a class that anyone likes.”

“You’re not—”

“Oh, stop.” Becca hugged herself and turned away from him. “Just stop it. You said you don’t want my sympathy. Well, I don’t want yours. I’m not like you, Colt. I don’t go around railing over all the ways that life has treated me badly.” She was surprised by the anger in her voice but unable to stop it. From the look on Colt’s face, he was shocked, too. “I’ve found that my life is a lot easier when I quit wishing for what I don’t have and focus on what I do have. When I quit wondering why things turned out the way they have, and just accepted that they did, my life became a lot more peaceful. Things happen for a reason, Colt. I know they do. And who the hell are you to come here and point out all the ways you think my life should be different?”

“I’m your friend, that’s who.” He stepped away from the rail and made a movement toward her. “I want to see you get what you want out of life.”

She put her hands back on her hips and glared at him. It wasn’t his fault, she told herself, even as she wanted to slap him for making her feel this way. “I told you what I wanted,” she said quietly. “I told you twelve years ago. And you left.”

“You mean…” His voice tapered off and he stared at her. “You don’t mean Paris.”

She found she couldn’t answer, couldn’t even move her head in affirmation or denial.

“Becca, you don’t still want me to…” He took a step toward her. “You’re not seriously saying you still want me to make love to you, are you?”

Words stuck in her throat. Rather than speak them, she swallowed them down.

“Good God, Becca, what are you trying to do to me here? Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to walk away last time? It almost killed me.”

“You managed.”

“Just. Becca, I’m naked under here. You don’t want to say things like that to me.”

“I’m not drunk,” she said, quietly but with force. “If I made the offer again, and you said no, you wouldn’t have that as an excuse. Your only excuse would be that you just don’t want me.”

He took another step, stood in front of her now. She could see the stubble on his chin, the lines around his eyes from worry and lack of sleep. She could see where the shadow of his tan carved down to a V over his chest.

“Are you offering?” His voice was so gruff, he sounded like someone else, a stranger.

She lifted her eyes to his, and the moment stretched between them, heavy with the knowledge of what could be.

“Becca, are you offering?” He emphasized each word.

She swallowed and opened her mouth to answer.

The buzzer on the dryer went off.

She didn’t know he’d been holding his breath until he blew it out in a gust. She lowered her head, looked at his hands, the floor, the rain outside.

“Bit of a cliché, isn’t that? Except, it’s a buzzer that’s saved you and not a bell.”

She moved to step around him. He put a hand out to stop her. “Wait—”

She kept moving. “I’ll get your clothes, Colt.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked across the porch and opened the door. Could feel them, though she didn’t turn back to see.

Chapter 4

Colt scraped putty from the edge of the new window and rubbed a knuckle into his back. This was the last of the three windows he’d had to replace; he couldn’t for the life of him figure out how Doff had managed to break them all. Not that it mattered now.

He groaned, flexed his shoulders and looked at the sky. Judging both from the low sun in the west and his aching back, it was time to knock off for the day. His eyes drifted downward, and he saw Becca walking toward the quarry, a canvas and easel under one arm and a small tackle box in the other hand.

It irritated him, seeing how serene she looked walking across the field, when he’d felt like chewing nails all day. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. He’d lain awake, stiff as a rod all night because he couldn’t get her off his mind. And she was out for a stroll without a care.

He dropped the putty knife into his toolbox and closed the lid with a satisfying bang. Was she trying to drive him crazy? Was she trying to tease him until he was ready to pull his hair out? Because if she was, she was doing a damn fine job.

But he knew she wasn’t. Becca wasn’t a tease. She was naive, and so genuinely good that it was almost unbelievable. It wasn’t her fault he wanted to drag her to the ground.

He felt like an idiot, tagging after her. But he did it, anyway. He told himself he wanted to see what she was painting. And he actually did ask about the painting, when he joined her at the quarry.

She cast a quick glance at him over the edge of the canvas. “It’s the quarry, of course.”

Of course. She was as breezy as if the previous day hadn’t happened. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and fidgeted around behind the easel. She went back to painting.

“So…” He kicked a small stone into the quarry.

“Yes?”

“How’s school going?”

“It’s almost gone, thank goodness. The spring gets longer every year and the summer gets shorter.”

“Hmm.” Fascinating conversation. He bounced on his heels a few times and turned back to her.

“I was wondering…I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. But I’m curious. How is it that you’re—”

“Still a virgin?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I was waiting for marriage.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe I’m toying with the idea of becoming a nun, but I just can’t commit to the black habit.”

“Is joking about it your way of saying you don’t want to talk about it?”

Becca faced him, and he could see what a struggle it was for her to look him in the eye.

“Yes, it is. It’s an embarrassing subject.”

“I don’t mean to embarrass you, Becca. I just—”

“Then, let’s not talk about it. I’ve worked really hard, Colt, to overcome the person I used to be. And…I don’t know, seeing you again…for a while it was like I was back in high school again.” She swirled her brush in a dab of paint before she met his eyes again. “For some people, that’s a pleasant trip down memory lane. For me, it’s not. I don’t want to go through all that again, and I don’t want to think about it. The past is the past, and I can’t undo it. I’d really rather just not talk about it.”

He was silent for a moment, then picked up a rock and tossed it into the quarry. It arced and seemed to hang, then finally went down with a plop. “So, you’d rather I just keep away from you while I’m here.”

“No.” She looked at him, her brow furrowed. “No, I would not rather you do that.”

“You said seeing me made you feel like you were in high school again. If I bring back bad memories for you…”

“You make me remember what a fool I made of myself. That’s not your fault, it’s mine. But you bring back good memories, too. Like now, here in the quarry. Some of my fondest memories from growing up were right here. No, I don’t want you to stop coming to see me. I just don’t want to talk about the state of my nonexistent sex life anymore.”

He reached over and rubbed a finger lightly over her collarbone. The surprisingly intimate contact made her jump. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, and he drew his hand back and pulled her sweater closer around her neck. “Sounds fair enough.”

Colt arched suddenly, pressing his fist into the small of his back.

“You okay?” Becca asked.

He nodded, looking around as the rising dark drifted almost imperceptibly up from the quarry, turning the bottom a dark, dusky pink, the sides a golden rose. “It’s not bad. Just a little stiff. You remember those stories you used to make up when we came out here?”

“Sure. Parts of them, at least. Why, you want me to make up a story for you now?”

He smiled and shook his head. “I was just thinking you should try to sell those. You know, write them down. You could do the artwork, too. Have your own series of picture books.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” She sat on the boulder between them and tucked her feet up beside her.

“Seriously, you should. Why not?”

“Only about a jillion reasons. I have no education in writing or art. The stories were just fanciful things I made up.”

“I liked them.”

“You were nine. Book editors are a little older than that.”

“Their readers aren’t. Look, who cares if you have formal education or not?”

“It must be somewhat important. Everyone else who writes children’s books gets an education. You can’t believe how stiff the competition is in that field, Colt. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“How do you know until you try?”

Becca looked away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The breeze was picking up, rustling through the trees and waving in the tall grass. “I know.”

“You already tried.”

“Yes, I did. A few years ago, when I first started painting again. It got rejected.”

“And that was it?”

“There’s not much you can say after that.”

“How about ‘try again’? Becca, no one would get anywhere if they gave up after the first try.”

“Maybe I don’t want it bad enough to try again.” She moved her shoulders.

Colt was silent a moment, then stepped in front of her. The setting sun shone behind him, a red ball on the horizon at his back. The wind blew his dark curls, and his brown eyes looked intently at her. “But you do want it.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I really do.”

Colt sighed, then squatted in front of her. “Okay, the thing to do, when you’re faced with an obstacle, is list the things you have to overcome, then figure out how you’re going to overcome them, one by one. You said there were a jillion reasons, and the first one is your lack of education.”

“And how am I going to overcome that? Run off to art school now?”

“Not a bad idea. But no.” He stood and sat down on the rock beside her, taking her hand. “I don’t think that’s necessary. How long has it been since you sent that first book in?”

Becca shrugged. “Almost four years ago. Right after Mama died.”

“And since then you started painting again, right? And you’re doing the drawings for Dunleavy’s, too. So you have more experience, and therefore more education. You’ve learned things.”

“I suppose I have learned a few things, but—”

“No ‘buts.’ You’re better now than you were four years ago. So that problem is taken care of. Now, what’s the next?”

Becca shook her head and smiled. “I don’t know. A lot of publishers accept only computer artwork now. I don’t even have the programs on my computer. My old computer probably wouldn’t handle the programs even if I did have them.”

“But that problem could be solved pretty easily, with a little money.”

“Oh, yeah, a new computer and software. I’ll just run down to Circle D and pick those up.”

“What I’m saying is that it’s not impossible.”

“Spoken like someone who is not on a teacher’s salary. Do you have any idea how much computers cost?”

He ignored the question. “Okay, so what’s our next obstacle? That’s only two out of a jillion.”

Becca drew her head back and sighed. “Colt, seriously—”

“I am serious, Becca. What’s the next problem?”

She studied their fingers linked together. How was it, she wondered idly, that he felt so comfortable just picking up her hand, when she couldn’t seem to drag her mind away from the feel of his palm against hers, his fingers twining around her own?

“Come on, what is it?”

Becca raised her chin and looked Colt in the eye. “I really don’t think I can do it. I mean, I know I can write the stories, and I can do the art. I just don’t think I can do a good enough job that anyone would actually pay for them.”

“Oh, well then.” Colt stretched out his legs and smiled. “That’s not a problem. Because I think you can do it. Matter of fact, I think it enough for both of us. So don’t worry about that. You don’t have to believe in yourself. I believe in you.”

Becca stared at Colt, her breath caught in her throat, unable to speak. She had never realized that she had missed hearing those words in her life, never realized what a hole there was in her until Colt filled it, and so easily that it appeared effortless. She found herself blinking back hot tears.

“That—that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she whispered.

He turned to face her, his mouth open to speak. He looked into her eyes and closed his mouth again. His thumb moved over hers softly. “Well, I wasn’t going for that. I was just telling you the truth.”

“I know. That’s what makes it so special. You’d better watch it, Colt. A few more words like that, and I might not believe you’re the bad guy you keep trying to convince me you are.”

She wished the comment back as soon as she’d said it, because his face got that hard look she was coming to recognize and despise.

“That would be your mistake.” He released her hand and stood. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You should know as well as I do what I’m capable of.”

He was trying to push her away. She recognized it, and refused to let him. “I know what you’re capable of. You’re capable of encouraging me like no one ever has.”

“How do you know I didn’t just say that out of guilt?”

“Guilt over what?”

“Over not taking you with me when you asked me. For leaving you here to waste your life.”

Waste her life. The words swirled in the wind around Becca. She told herself that he didn’t really mean it, that he was just trying to push her away because she’d said something nice about him.

And knew it was working, after all. “Is that why you said that? Because you feel guilty?”

He didn’t answer. He stood before her, jaw clenching and releasing, and looked at the horizon.

Becca closed her eyes and looked away. She would not let him do this to her. He only had the weapon if she handed it to him, and she would not do that.

“If it is, then let me just ease your conscience. You did the right thing when you refused to take me with you. It would have been a colossal mistake, and I’m grateful that you had sense enough to see that at the time. And as for me wasting my life…” She sighed and raked a hand through her hair. “You haven’t wasted your life, have you, Colt? You pursued your dreams and became very successful. And what good has it done you? You’re still the same bitter, hateful person you were when you left Aloma. Only now, I believe you’re even harder than you used to be. The boy I knew would never have deliberately tried to hurt me the way you just did.”

She stood and brushed off the back of her dress. Her voice quiet, but steady, she said, “Damn you, Colt. Damn you for saying that. And damn you for thinking it.”

She gathered her equipment, refusing to give in to the tears that built behind her eyes.

Colt grabbed her arm as she moved by him. “Becca, wait.”

She faced him, her teeth clenched, determined that he wouldn’t see a trace of hurt in her eyes, would only see the anger she was fully justified in feeling.

“Damn it,” he said softly. He kissed her, hard, and she could feel the frustration vibrating off him. She let him, because she knew he was looking for a fight and she refused to give it to him.

When he drew his head away, she met his gaze squarely. “Was that guilt, too, Colt?” She was fiercely proud that her voice, if soft, at least didn’t tremble.

He scowled and backed away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well, was it? If you’re going to do that, at least don’t be a chicken about it. Was that guilt, too?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It wasn’t guilt.”

She opened her mouth to ask what it was. But she decided she didn’t want to know. Was better off not knowing. So instead of asking, she said, “I don’t want to play this game anymore, Colt.”

He cleared his throat. “And what game is that?”

She whirled around, her arms out, frustrated and angry at them both. “This stupid game. From the moment you came back into town, I’ve flirted with the idea of picking up where we left off that night. And you’ve thought about it, too—I can see it in your face when you look at me. But we both know it’s not going to happen. It won’t happen, and shouldn’t happen. It was a mistake before, and it would be even more of a mistake now, when we’re both old enough to know better.”

She stopped, hands on her hips. “I just—this is so stupid, Colt. You and I are never going to be together, so why can’t we both just—just—”

“Just what?” He stepped up, close, and took her by the wrist. “Why can’t we just…what?”

“Just forget about it. Forget about the whole thing and be like we used to be.”

He spoke through a clenched jaw. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? For twelve years I tried, and I did a pretty good job of forgetting about it. Until I saw you again. I only thought of it once or twice a day up till then. Now I think about it all the time. I can’t forget about it, because twelve years ago you asked me to make love to you. And all these years later, I still wish I could.”

Becca swallowed, staring into his eyes. She would have liked to speak, but her mind wouldn’t form the words.

“Did you hear me?” he demanded.

She nodded.

“I still want to. And you saying it will never happen, that doesn’t seem to change one bit the fact that I still want it to happen, so bad it’s making me crazy. You want me to quit playing games? Well, little girl, I want you to quit haunting me. I want you to quit being there every time I turn around, with that—” he stepped back and dropped her hand, waving at her “—smile, and those eyes that look right through me. I want to quit seeing you when you’re nowhere near me. Just stop.”

“I haunt you?”

“Damn right, you do. How could you not, standing there, looking at me like that? Yesterday it was all I could do to keep from throwing you down on the porch and taking you right there. And you want us both to just forget about it. Forget about it and be friends. And I guess that’s what we’ll have to do. Because any fool knows you don’t save something for thirty years, just to blow it on some bum passing through town. That’s the kind of thing that has to wait for Mr. Right. And we both know that’s not me.”

The bell over the door dinged as Colt pushed through it. Frank’s Barbershop still looked much the same as it had when Colt had gotten haircuts here as a boy, but it sure didn’t smell the same. Ever since Barbara Foust married that boat salesman and moved to Houston—closing down Aloma’s only beauty shop—Frank had been doing double haircare duty for the citizens of Aloma county. Or—as Frank liked to put it with a wink and a grin, as if he were saying something risqué—unisex styling.

Now, the small building was divided clearly. The men’s haircuts were done on the left side, with a red-and-white barber pole and fishing-and-hunting magazines beside the waiting area. On the other side, Hollywood lights surrounded the mirror, and pictures of pouting models’ faces lined the walls, giving examples of the latest hair fashions from New York and Paris. The old familiar smells of hair tonic and aftershave were now overpowered by the ammonia-laden odors of permanent waves and peroxide bleach.

Toby Haskell was just sitting down—on the men’s side, of course—for his monthly trim, when Colt walked in.

“Hey, Hoss!” he called as he saw Colt. “I haven’t seen you for a few days. I was afraid you’d taken off already. Corinne will skin me if I don’t bring you over for dinner before you go.”

Colt nodded. “Be happy to.”

“How about Sunday night? Frank, you be careful back there.” Toby twisted in his chair and looked back at the barber. “Don’t be cutting off anything I might need.”

“Turn around and quit telling me how to do my job,” Frank said congenially. He palmed the top of Toby’s head and faced it forward for him. “How much do you want off?”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.