Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Copyright

“I Should Be Married And At My Wedding Reception Right This Minute!”

Julie shouted at Flint. “You cannot kiss me. No.”

“Darlin’, I wasn’t the only one doing the kissing.”

“Don’t call me darlin’. I’m not your darlin’. I’m about to become Mrs. Robert Allen Newly.”

“Newly? Julie Newly?” A snort of laughter exploded from him.

She bopped him on the shoulder with her fist. “Don’t you dare laugh. Yes, I’ll be Julie Newly, and it’s not funny. And if you know what’s good for you, Flint Durham, you’ll take me back to my wedding ceremony right this minute.”

Dear Reader,

The holidays are always a busy time of year, and this year is no exception! Our “banquet table” is chock-full of delectable stories by some of your favorite authors.

November is a time to come home again—and come back to the miniseries you love. Dixie Browning continues her TALL, DARK AND HANDSOME series with Stryker’s Wife, which is Dixie’s 60th book! This MAN OF THE MONTH is a reluctant bachelor you won’t be able to resist! Fall in love with a footloose cowboy in Cowboy Pride, book five of Anne McAllister’s CODE OF THE WEST series. Be enthralled by Abbie and the Cowboy—the conclusion to the THREE WEDDINGS AND A GIFT miniseries by Cathie Linz.

And what would the season be without HOLIDAY HONEYMOONS? You won’t want to miss the second book in this cross-line continuity series by reader favorites Merline Lovelace and Carole Buck. This month, it’s a delightful wedding mix-up with Wrong Bride, Right Groom by Merline Lovelace.

And that’s not all! In Roared Flint is a secret baby tale by RITA Award winner Jan Hudson. And Pamela Ihgrahm has created an adorable opposites-attract story in The Bride Wore Tie-Dye.

So, grab a book and give yourself a treat in the middle of all the holiday rushing. You’ll be glad you did.

Happy reading!

Senior Editor

and the editors of Silhouette Desire

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Waiden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

In Roared Flint
Jan Hudson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JAN HUDSON,

a winner of the Romance Writers of America RITA Award, is a native Texan who lives with her husband in historically rich Nacogdoches, the oldest town in Texas. Formerly a licensed psychologist, she taught college psychology for over a decade before becoming a full-time author. Jan loves to write fast-paced stories laced with humor, fantasy and adventure, using bold characters who reach beyond the mundane and celebrate life.

For Alex Thorleifson.

Thanks for friendship and

for Garner Valley.

One

Flint Durham was back.

A fury of emotions surged through Julie Travis Stevens as she clutched the lace curtains of her upstairs bedroom and watched him rip down Travis Boulevard toward the house.

Dressed in black and astride a Harley, he was roaring in the same way he’d roared out six years before. An unforgettable aura of dark intensity and menacing allure rode with him like a familiar. Unshaven, with a red bandanna on his head and his long black hair streaming behind him, he exuded a wild sensuality that was every mother’s nightmare. And every daughter’s secret dream.

Squeezing her lids tightly shut, Julie prayed that her eyes had deceived her, that her mind had conjured up an apparition. Oh, please, God. No. Not Flint. Not now. Not today. But when she opened her eyes, there he was—unmistakably real.

After six long years, why had he picked today of all days to come back?

One thing she knew for sure: Flint Durham was up to no good. A sick, sinking feeling gripped her stomach, and she groaned involuntarily.

“Julie, what’s wrong?” her younger sister, Melissa, asked. She gathered her long shirt and crossed the room to peer out the window. “You look like you’ve seen a—Holy horse patties!” She grabbed Julie’s arm in a death grip, and her eyes bugged out like a bullfrog’s. “Would you look at that? I can’t believe it. It’s him. It’s Flint. Flint Durham. Holy horse patties!”

Julie fought back the panic building inside her as she watched him roll to a stop behind the caterer’s truck and set the kickstand. Sure that she teetered on the edge of screaming hysteria, she clung to the shreds of her self-control as he came up the walk, his broad shoulders and long legs moving with the familiar, confident swagger that always had women in six counties swooning over him.

“Julie, he’s coming to the door,” Melissa said, her voice an octave higher. “What are you going to do?”

“If I had a gun, I’d shoot the bastard!”

The doorbell rang, and the melodious chimes above the double staircase reverberated throughout the big house like a disaster knell.

“Aren’t you even going to talk to him?” Melissa asked.

“No way. I’m not letting him ruin two wedding days for me. Hand me my veil before you completely mangle it, and go downstairs and tell Rosie not to let him in.”

Melissa sighed. “Why do I have the feeling that getting rid of Flint won’t be easy?”

“Tell him that I said, ‘Drop dead.’ That ought to do the trick. If not, call Uncle Hiram.” Uncle Hiram, the eldest of the town founder’s four grandsons, was the police chief in Travis Creek, and he ruled the small East Texas town with an iron fist. Uncle Edgar owned the Travis Creek Times; her daddy was the president of the bank. And Uncle William…well, Uncle William drank.

After Melissa hurried out, Julie sat down at her dressing table to finish her hair and makeup. She hummed loudly to drown out the ruckus downstairs. In exactly one hour and forty-eight minutes, she would say “I do” with Dr. Robert Allen Newly in her parents’ rose garden. And she was determined that nothing was going to spoil this day. Her pale peach dress was perfect; the weather was perfect; the roses were perfect. Rob was the perfect husband for her. Her parents said so frequently.

The only thing about her wedding that caused her the least bit of trepidation was that her name would be Julie Newly. It sounded like part of a bad jingle.

She would have to sign her letters: Yours truly, Julie Newly.

Shouting from downstairs stabbed at her composure, but she hummed louder.

Yes, Rob was a wonderful man. From a fine family. With a marvelous future as a physician. Perhaps if she’d known him when he was choosing his specialty she might have steered him toward heart surgery or even dermatology, but people needed proctologists, too, she told herself.

And what did a little bald spot matter when he was so good with the children? Perhaps his kisses didn’t exactly blister her nail polish, but she’d learned the hard way that other things were more important than wild, mindless passion. Rob was a man of character and substance, steady as a rock. Perfect.

Rob adored her. And best of all, his new practice was in Piano, north of Dallas. She and the children would be out of her parents’ house and into one of their own, one too far away for doting grandparents to hover over the kids and continue to spoil them rotten.

Julie heard the front door slam, but the ruckus downstairs continued—the doorbell chimed incessantly amid shouting and banging. She hummed louder and closed one eyelid to put on eyeliner. Her hand shook so badly that the line looked like rickrack.

“Dammit!” She threw down the pencil and wiped her lid with a tissue.

Melissa ran into the room. “The man is crazy. Wild. I don’t know what to do. He says he won’t go away until he talks to you.”

“Call Uncle Hiram.”

“Oh, Julie, are you sure? Can’t you at least talk to him? God, he’s such a hunk.” Melissa sighed and hung on to one of the posts of the cherry four-poster.

A spray of gravel clattered against Julie’s window and Flint bellowed her name from down below.

“Mommy, Mommy,” Megan said as she ran in the room, grabbed Julie around the legs and plastered her small body against her mother. “There’s a man yelling downstairs. And he looks mean. I’m scared.”

“I’m not scared,” said Jason, Megan’s twin brother. He puffed out his thin five-year-old chest as he marched in. “I’ll morph into a Power Ranger and kick his lights out.”

Julie knelt and gathered the twins to her. She kissed Megan’s forehead. “Darlings, there’s no reason to be afraid. Aunt Missy is calling the police right now,” she said, then looked pointedly at Melissa. “Aren’t you?”

“Right this minute. See?” Melissa snatched up the phone and reported the disturbance to Uncle Hiram. “Someone will be right here.”

Julie gave each of the children a hug. “Now why don’t you run along with Aunt Missy and get your wedding clothes on? The guests will be arriving soon.”

Melissa herded the kids out, and just as the door closed, another clatter of gravel hit the window. Flint bellowed her name. Furious, Julie stomped to the window, threw up the sash and poked her head out.

“Dammit, Flint Durham, would you shut up! You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

Flint dropped the handful of pebbles he held and looked up. When he spotted Julie, his usual insolent scowl changed immediately into a broad smile with the power of a nuclear reactor.

“Hi, Julie. I’m back.”

“Well, isn’t that just ducky? Now go away!”

“But, Julie, I have to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. Go away! Melissa has called the police, and they’ll be here any minute.”

“Dammit, I’m not leaving until I talk to you!” He grabbed a limb of the oak tree that grew near her window, swung himself up and began climbing.

She shrieked, grabbed a vase of roses and upended flowers and water on him. It had the same effect as pouring gasoline on a fire. He roared, cursed and kept climbing.

She threw everything at him that she could get her hands on, pelting him with a jar of face cream, a candy dish, a pair of bookends. He dodged every missile and kept climbing. She took careful aim at the motorcycle emblazoned across the black T-shirt he wore and hurled a Waterford clock at his chest. It hit dead on target.

A thud, a loud ooofff, a curse. He lost his grip and fell, flailing and still cursing, to the grass below.

Momentarily panicked, Julie leaned out the window and looked down to where Flint lay. He didn’t move. His eyes were closed. Dear Lord, had she killed him?

One black eye opened. It zeroed in on her. “Now what did you go and do that for? I just wanted to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to say, Flint Durham.” As she slammed down the window, a siren wailed from the police car racing toward the house. She turned her back and walked away.

Once more she sat down at her dressing table and hummed very loudly.

“Mommy, Mommy!” Megan and Jason came tearing in her room with Melissa chasing after them, trying to tie Megan’s sash.

“The policemen are taking the mean man away,” Meg said.

“And one of them is riding his biiig motorcycle. Wow! Someday I’m gonna have a motorcycle like that,” Jason chimed in. “Buddennn, buddennn.” He made motor sounds and ran around the room holding imaginary handlebars.

“Not in my lifetime,” Julie told him. “Now run along and finish getting dressed. Mommy has to put on her wedding gown.”

At three o’clock on the last Saturday in April, the guests were assembled on rented chairs in the garden. Since this was Julie’s “second” marriage, the ceremony was kept small and intimate with only about fifty people present, mostly relatives along with a few very old friends.

Her favorite Uncle William sat on the second row, slighted potted Julie was sure, looking gloomy. Uncle William was the only one in the family who thought her marriage to Rob was a mistake. Perhaps because Rob was a teetotaler.

Although, by the end of April, the azaleas and the early spring bulbs were long past their season, Patricia Spalding Travis, Julie’s mother, in conference with God and three gardeners for the past two months, had seen to it that the garden resembled a fairyland of flowers, and the gazebo fairly dripped greenery and blossoms.

With the elderly Millicent Wall on the harp and her older sister, Eugenia, on the flute, magnificent wedding music rippled and trilled over the shaded grounds. The Methodist minister stood on the top step of the gazebo. Rob and his cousin stood two steps down, waiting.

Julie’s palms were decidedly damp. She clutched her bouquet and her father’s arm tightly.

George Travis smiled and parted Julie’s hand. “Nervous?”

“Extremely.”

Her father smiled again. “Rob is a fine man. Your mother and I couldn’t have picked a better husband for you or a father for the twins. There’s nothing for you to be nervous about.”

Julie knew that her father wouldn’t be so calm if he’d known about Flint’s visit earlier. Thankfully, her parents had been away from the house on last-minute errands. Just hearing Flint’s name was enough to dispatch her mother to bed with a migraine and launch her father into a tirade that sent his blood pressure soaring.

She took a deep breath and focused her attention on the ceremony. Her wedding day should be a joyous occasion. She was determined not to let anything taint it.

Megan and Jason led the procession. Jason carried a pillow with gold wedding rings tied securely atop it. An oddly shaped lump protruded from the back pocket of his navy suit, distorting the lines of the tailored jacket. As he had been instructed a score of times, he walked very slowly and carefully, the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on his task. Only once did he swipe his nose with his sleeve.

Megan, wearing ruffled socks and with sash slightly askew, carried a small basket and exuberantly scattered petals from her grandmother’s prize Peace roses along the newly laid flagstone path to the gazebo. Distressed that she misjudged and had run out of petals before she reached her destination, she back-tracked and grabbed a few handfuls from the pathway to replenish her basket. These she dispensed sparingly until she reached the gazebo.

Watching her children, Julie smiled and her chest swelled with pride and love for the pair. Megan and Jason were the light of her life and worth every ounce of heartache she had endured.

When Melissa reached the gazebo, the music changed subtly. The crowd rose and turned.

“That’s our cue, sweetheart.” George Travis kissed his daughter’s cheek.

Julie took a deep breath, plastered a smile on her shaky lips and they started the walk down the flagstone path. Every muscle in her body seemed to quiver, and once she almost stumbled. Her father patted her hand and held his over it.

Why was she so nervous?

She looked at Rob, who waited for her at the gazebo, an adoring expression on his face, his eyes shining brightly as he watched her approach. He was such a dear, sweet man. How could anybody not love him?

They stopped and the minister began. His words echoed vaguely in the buzzing inside her head.

“Her mother and I do,” her father said, then stepped back to take his place on the front row.

The minister began again, and the buzzing in her head grew louder and louder until it was a roar. Was she about to faint?

The roar grew louder. Distracted, the minister stopped and looked up from his prayer book. The guests fidgeted and murmured. Rob glanced over his shoulder and frowned. Julie glanced over her shoulder and almost had a heart attack.

Flint Durham, astride his Harley, vroommed through the side yard, cut a swath across Patricia Spalding Travis’s bed of lavender petunias, and was headed down the flagstone path straight for the gazebo.

He screeched to a stop mere inches from the bride and groom, set one black-booted foot on the ground and scowled. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled at Julie.

The guests gasped.

“Getting married,” she enunciated distinctly.

Flint’s black eyes swept over Rob, then he sneered. “To him? Like hell you are!”

“Flint, would you go away! You’re making a spectacle of yourself and ruining my wedding!”

“Damned right. You’re coming with me. Get on the bike.”

“I will not!”

“Now see here,” Rob said, stepping forward.

Flint reached beneath his leather vest, whipped out a gun and shoved it against Rob’s nose.

Rob froze.

The guests gasped louder.

A woman shrieked.

A man’s voice boomed.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Panic rose up in Julie’s throat. He’d gone mad, absolutely mad. Dangerously mad.

“Get on the bike,” Flint said gruffly, ordering Julie with a quick gesture of his head.

“Flint, please, can’t we—”

“On the bike.” He gestured with his head again. The gun under Rob’s nose lifted him until he was tiptoeing in his patent leather shoes and sweating profusely.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

She hesitated only a millisecond. Her babies. She had to protect her babies. She tossed Melissa her bouquet, hitched up the short train of her dress and climbed on behind him.

Flint flashed Rob a wolfish grin. “So long, sucker.” He shot the groom with two good squirts from the water pistol he held, then revved up the bike and took off across the marigold bed.

With Julie cursing and beating her fists on his back and pandemonium breaking loose behind them, he threw back his head and laughed.

Two

“Damn you, Flint Durham!” Julie shrieked, beating against his back with her fist. “Stop and let me off this thing.”

“No way,” Flint shouted over his shoulder.

“If you don’t let me off, I’ll jump!”

“You’ll break your beautiful neck. Hang on,” he said, rounding a corner at a high speed.

She clutched his waist and leaned into the turn, instinctively recalling the technique even though she hadn’t been on a motorcycle in more than six years—not since Flint left. His long hair fluttered against her face and she automatically moved closer to him to avoid it, pressing her cheek against his broad back. It felt excruciatingly, maddeningly familiar. She stiffened.

She would not be drawn into his spell. Not today. Not ever again.

She began beating his back with her fists once more. “Stop! Stop! Let me off.”

“No!”

Julie couldn’t recall feeling so helpless. The feeling infuriated her. Sooner or later he had to stop—for a light, a stop sign, or something—and she would jump off this infernal contraption and call the police. Flint would never see daylight again. He would rot in jail.

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. Like one blessed, he hit every light perfectly as they roared out of town, her wedding dress hitched up to her thighs and billowing behind her. She frantically tried to signal other cars, people at a road-side fruit stand; they all smiled and waved back.

Flint turned off the main highway onto a secondary road that cut through the heavily forested area and headed in the direction of the huge Sam Rayburn Lake. Oh, dear Lord, nobody knew this backwoods part of the county as well as Flint did. He’d grown up on the banks of the lake and explored every pig trail in the woods. Even if Uncle Hiram came after her with a posse, they’d never find her if Flint didn’t want her to be found.

They took another fork, then another, in such a convoluted route that Julie was soon hopelessly lost. She leaned her forehead against Flint’s back and her shoulders sagged. “Please stop. Please, Flint, please.”

The Harley slowed, rounded a curve, then drew to a halt in front of a cedar cabin beside the water.

Julie scrambled off the back of the bike and made a dash for the road. His arm hooked her waist and lifted her from her feet. “Not so fast, love. We have to talk.”

“Talk? You must be kidding. I don’t have a thing to say to you! Put me down right this minute, or I’ll scream my head off.”

“Scream away, darlin’. There’s not a soul within hearing distance.” He started toward the door of the weathered cabin.

She tried peeling his arm from her waist. “Please, Flint. You’re hurting me.”

Looking contrite, he immediately set her down. “Oh, sugar, I’m sorry.”

The minute her feet hit the ground, she made a dash for it. Before she’d gone two steps, he caught her wrist. “Hold it. I told you that we have to talk.”

He tried pulling her toward him, but Julie set her jaw and dug in her heels—literally—sinking the backs of her peach-colored silk shoes into the spongy ground and giving him a venomous look. He wasn’t deterred for more than five seconds. He merely plucked her from her pumps, tossed her over his shoulder and headed up the steps to the porch.

“Dammit, Flint, don’t do this!”

He unlocked the front door, kicked it shut behind them, then set her on her feet. When she made a lunge for the door, he grabbed her again. This time he turned the key in the dead bolt and dropped it in his pocket. She struggled against his grip on her, and he let her go.

Glaring at him, she stomped to the front door and rattled the knob. Locked, of course. “Give me the key.”

Flint leaned against the mantel of the stone fireplace, folded his arms and slowly shook his head.

“There must be another door to this place.”

He gestured to the rear where the kitchen was. “It’s locked, too.”

Thrusting out her jaw, she declared, “Very well. I’ll use a window.”

“Be my guest.”

Marching to a window, she threw open the sash and met burglar bars. She rattled them. Locked. She whirled and glared at him some more. “Exactly what do you expect to accomplish by keeping me a prisoner here?”

“I expect to talk you. I told you that earlier. I’m determined that we’re going to get some things straightened out here, come hell or high water. Just listen to me for a few minutes. It’s important for you to understand—”

“I’m not listening to you, Flint Durham,” she shouted, covering her ears with her hands and marching around in circles. “I’m not listening to a single syllable that you have to say.” Keeping her hands over her ears, she started singing “Dixie” at the top of her lungs as she continued her barefoot stomping.

Flint grabbed her in the middle of a loud “look away” and plunked her into a large leather recliner. “Lord, woman, you don’t make this easy. Would you stay put for five minutes. I have something to show you.”

“I don’t want to see it.”

She scrambled up from the deep chair, and he shoved her back down. She popped up; he shoved down.

“Dammit, Julie! Can’t you just give me thirty seconds?” He pushed her into the recliner, then quickly lifted one heavy chair leg, crammed the tail of her dress under it and dropped the weight of the chair down on the yards of peach silk.

When she tried to get up, her caught dress held her down. She yanked and yanked, but she was pulling against her own weight, and she couldn’t get enough leverage to move and lift the chair. Struggling, she got halfway up into an awkward, twisted position, then lost her balance and fell sprawling into the chair. Somehow, in the bucking and wiggling and tugging, the recliner popped open into its most extreme position. A loud ripppp. Her head jerked back; her feet flew up; her arms and elbows went every which way.

She batted the tattered gown from her face and fought with the recliner—which had transformed into an undulating octopus—to get to her feet. One ragged part of the hem still held her prisoner. Feeling as helpless as a staked goat, she kept struggling until she saw Flint enter with a black designer suitcase. She lay back, exhausted.

“I brought something for you.” He opened the suitcase and dumped its contents into her lap.

She stilled. Her eyes widened.

Money. Banded stacks of bills. Dozens of stacks. Scores of stacks.

When she saw that most of the packets were in denominations of fifty and one hundred dollars, her eyes widened even further and she sucked in a deep gasp. “What is this?”

“A million dollars. It’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yep. I told you when I left that I would bring you back a million dollars.”

“But you were teasing and that was six years ago.”

“It took me a little longer than I expected.”

“It’s been six years, Flint. Six years without a word from you. Was I supposed to sit around and wait after you jilted me on our wedding day?”

“I didn’t jilt you, sweetheart. I explained that I had a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one that might let me offer you a decent living instead of one with a river rat. I couldn’t marry you and take you home to that shack my mother died in. I only asked you to wait, to give me a little time.”

“A little time?” she shrieked, bounding to her feet amid ripping and rending noises. Fists on her hips, she glared up at him. “You expected me to wait for six years without a word from you? Without a phone call? Without a letter? Without a simple postcard?”

“I did try to call you, and I did write to you. And I damned well expected you to wait more than six weeks to marry another man! Was he rich?”

“No, Charles wasn’t rich, but he…he was there when I needed him. He wasn’t off gallivanting all over the country chasing a dream and trying to make his fortune. Why didn’t you take me with you, Flint? Why didn’t you take me with you?”

She watched pain and regret fill his black eyes. He reached to coil a lock of her hair around his finger. “I wish I had,” he murmured. “I wish to hell I had.”

The wrenching tone of his voice almost melted the steel armor protecting her heart, but she stiffened her resolve. “But you didn’t. You made your choice and left me behind. Now it’s too late.”

“Is it, Julie? Is it too late for us?” He scooped up several stacks of bills, held them out to her and smiled that smile that had always turned her into mush. “You can have anything your heart desires. I’ve brought you a treasure.”

Fury flew over her. She slapped the cash from his hand. “Keep your money! I never wanted money. I only wanted you.” Despite her best efforts, tears ran down her cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, gathering her into his arms, “I’m yours.”

Before she could wiggle free, his mouth slanted over hers. Sensual, warm, familiar.

She melted under his sensuous spell. His lips evoked an avalanche of delicious memories that smothered her protests and plunged her into a sea of pure sensualism. His tongue branded her as his, only his.

Holding her close, he dropped kisses over her face, trailed his tongue along her jaw, nibbled on her earlobe. He cupped her buttocks, drew her against his hardness and groaned. “God, how I want you, darlin’. I’ve ached for you for six long years.” His mouth devoured hers.

Reality crept through the cracks of her consciousness and dashed her with cold water. She tensed and tore her lips away. “What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ me some sweet, sweet sugar,” he murmured, reaching for her lips again.

“No!”

“No?”

“You heard me. I can’t believe you’re doing this. I’m engaged to another man. I should be married and at my wedding reception right this minute. You cannot kiss me. No.”

“Babe, I wasn’t the only one doing the kissing. You were going after it pretty good yourself.”

“Don’t call me babe. You know very well I’ve always hated being called babe.”

“Sorry, darlin’.”

“And don’t call me darlin’, either. I’m not your darlin’. I’m not your anything. I am about to become Mrs. Robert Allen Newly.”

“Newly? Julie Newly?” A snort of laughter exploded from him.

She bopped him on the shoulder with her fist. “Don’t you dare laugh. Yes, I’ll be Julie Newly, and it’s not funny. It has a lovely lilt. And if you know what’s good for you, Flint Durham, you’ll take me back to Travis Creek right this minute.”

“Not until we talk.”

“Why have you suddenly become so enamored with talking? Before you left here, all you did was grunt occasionally. You were certainly never a verbal communicator.”

He shot her a salacious grin. “I was always better at the nonverbal stuff. You never complained about that.”

Julie felt her cheeks heat. “I’ve matured.”

“So have I. That’s why I want to talk. We have a lot of things to straighten out.”

Julie couldn’t miss the stubborn set of his jaw. She knew from past experience that trying to convince him otherwise would be like trying to argue with a fence post. She would give him ten minutes, listen to what he had to say, then demand to be returned to her parents’ house.

Still in a huff, she strode to a straight chair, plopped down and said, “Start talking.”

Three

Flint dragged another straight chair to face Julie and straddled it backward. He crossed his arms over the top slat, rested his chin against them and stared at her, absorbing her image. How often he’d dreamed of seeing her again, ached for her. Now he felt like a desert-parched man at a crystal-clear oasis. He slaked his thirst on the loveliness of her face, a face that had first captivated him fifteen years before and had profoundly altered his life. Time had been gracious to her, drawn her beauty more keenly, transformed her from a lovely girl to an exquisite woman.

“You’re more beautiful than ever,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

“Thank you,” she said, her nose going up and her blue eyes turning frosty, “but you have exactly ten minutes to have your say. I would suggest that you use your time on topics more important than my looks.”

He grinned at her imperious tone. “Right. Where shall I begin?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. You’re the one who skipped town on our wedding day.”

“Darlin’, I didn’t skip town. I explained that I wasn’t ready to get married. All I had to my name was two hundred dollars in the bank, a shack on the water and a used Harley. I was earning barely enough as a fishing guide to support myself. I couldn’t give you the things I wanted you to have or provide a decent place for you to live.”

“You’d been telling me the same tale for two years. I was sick of waiting. I told you dozens of times that money wasn’t that important to me. Besides, I had my teaching job. We could have gotten by just fine.”

“But I didn’t want to just get by. I wanted—” He scraped the red kerchief from his head, tossed it aside and raked his fingers through his hair. God, how to say this? “I wanted to give you fine things and a big beautiful house. But more than that, I wanted to be somebody, somebody that your family wouldn’t look down their noses at. Somebody you could be proud to marry in front of the whole damned town instead of having to sneak off and find a justice of the peace. That’s why, even though it took me eight years to do it, I got my college degree. I had a burning desire and a crazy idea that I could be a writer.”

Her brows went up and her eyes grew wide. “A writer? You?”

“Yep.” He rested his chin on his arms again. “I’ve always had a powerful urge to write. In fact, I used to stay up half the night, pounding away on an old typewriter I scrounged up. I fancied myself as the next Ernest Hemingway.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it. Why in the world didn’t you tell me?”

“Pride, I guess. Nobody knew except Miss Fuller, my English teacher in high school, and Dr. Stephenson, my creative writing teacher at Lamar.”

Her eyes turned sad. “I can’t believe that you didn’t tell me something so important to you.”

“I’m sorry. I should have, but I was waiting until I sold something. All I’d done was collect enough rejection letters to paper the whole courthouse. What kind of a profession was writing for somebody like me—the town bad boy, that old drunk Wilber Durham’s kid? Hell, maybe I was deluding myself in thinking that I could be a writer. I was scared to death that you would laugh at me.”

“Gee, thanks! It’s nice to know that you thought I was so shallow and insensitive. No wonder you jilted me!” She sprang to her feet. “This has gone far enough. Take me home this minute.”

“Not until I’ve had my say. Remember, I have the keys.”

She rolled her eyes upward and made exasperated growling sounds between her clenched teeth. She marched around in quick circles, pulling at her hair, most of which had come loose from its pins and hung in charming dishevelment. He knew that she was furious and getting madder by the minute, but he was desperate. No way in hell was he going to let her get away until he made her understand that the two of them were meant for each other.

“You have to sleep sometime,” she said, smirking.

“Julie, honey, will you listen to me? I’m trying to explain. I didn’t jilt you. I asked you to wait for another year.”

“And after that it would have been another year…and another.”

“I promised you that a year was all I was asking.”

“You promised me that you would write to me, too, but you didn’t.”

“I did write to you. I wrote you several letters.”

“Baloney! I never got them.”

He frowned. “You didn’t send them back to me with the newspaper clipping from your wedding?”

She looked truly stunned. “Certainly not.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know.” Julie dropped to the chair, hung her head and was silent for several seconds. “My mother,” she whispered. “It could only have been my mother.” She looked up, a pained expression on her face. “Dear Lord, how could she have done such a thing when she knew—” She clamped her mouth shut and glanced down at her fingers.

“When she knew what?”

Tears trickled down Julie’s cheeks. “When she knew how…how much I loved you, how much I needed you.”

Flint’s heart nearly choked him. “Oh, darlin’.” He pulled her up from her chair and into his arms. “I love you, too. And I need you. I hurt from needing you.” He started to kiss her, but she started hissing and spitting like a wildcat. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” she shrieked. “‘What’s wrong?‘ he asks. You waltz off to become Ernest Hemingway, then waltz back in six years later—on my wedding day, I might add—and expect me to take up where we left off? Well, think again, bub. And don’t call me babe.”

“But I explained, or at least part of it. If you had read my letters—”

“But I didn’t read them.”

He raked his hands through his hair again. “You would have if it hadn’t been for that bitch of a mother of yours.”

“Don’t call my mother names!” she yelled.

“She’s called me worse.”

Julie jacked up her chin and glared lightning bolts. “She has not. She never even says ‘darn.’ But I have. I’ve called you every name in the book for leaving me. Would you like to hear some of them?” She let loose with a string of invectives that turned his ears red.

“Julie! I don’t like to hear you talk like that.”

She cocked one eyebrow. “Well, la-de-dah. Isn’t that just too bad? If my choice of words offends you so badly, you can just take me home. Maybe I can still salvage my wedding.”

“No chance. Cuss until you’re blue in the face, but you’re staying here until I make you understand that there will never be anybody else for you except me.”

“You’re going to have a long wait.” She turned her back and crossed her arms.

“Honey, will you let me explain why I had to leave Travis Creek in such a hurry?”

“I’m not talking. I’m not listening.” She covered her ears and started singing “Dixie” again.

“Dammit, Julie,” he yelled. “I had received a letter the day before that knocked me for a loop. I was offered a full scholarship—”

“Look away…look awaaaaaay Dixieland,” she caterwauled.

Exasperated, he retreated to the couch and sat down. He plunked his booted feet on the pine coffee table, picked up a magazine and began leafing through the pages. He couldn’t have read it if he’d wanted to, not with all that howling and screeching going on. Julie was gorgeous; she had a well-modulated speaking voice that was sexy as hell; and he loved the woman with all his heart and soul—but the bare-faced truth was that she couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Never could sing worth a damn. Six years hadn’t changed that, either.

A few minutes later, she ran down. After an interval of blessed quiet, she said, “Flint, will you please take me home now?”

“Nope.”

She sighed theatrically. “Well, if you won’t take me home, at least let me go to the bathroom.”

“Okay.” He stood. “I’ll take you.”

“Home?”

“No. To the bathroom.”

“I can go by myself. Where is it?”

“Outside.”

Julie wrinkled her nose at the accommodations. At least it wasn’t a little house down a path. The small room, which seemed to have been added as an afterthought to one end of the long back porch, had a shower, a toilet, a sink and…a window without bars.

But when she tried pulling it up she almost got a hernia. Examining it closely, she saw that the blasted thing was nailed shut. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for a claw hammer or a pair of pliers.

Flint banged on the door. “Are you okay in there?”

Her keeper. She couldn’t even go to the bathroom without him standing outside waiting for her. Some way, somehow, she had to escape from this place.

He banged again. “Julie, are you okay?”

Frustrated and furious, she flung open the door. “Can’t I even use the ladies’ room in peace?”

“Sorry.” If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that he looked contrite.

Hiking up the tail of her torn wedding dress, she brushed past him, then stopped to scout the area, trying to figure out where she was. The cabin was in a heavily wooded tract, built partly on land and partly on beams over the edge of the bank. A pier extended out from the porch steps, but she didn’t see a boat anywhere. All she saw was woods and lake—miles and miles of woods and lake. But there had to be a boat around somewhere.

Boats and water had always made her nervous, but because of the twins, she’d worked hard at overcoming her fears. She still wasn’t thrilled about getting in a boat, but she could manage if it meant freedom.

Julie walked to the porch railing and nonchalantly glanced down at the water lapping at the beams. A red bass boat rode in a slip beneath the porch.

“Where are we?” she asked casually.

“At a friend’s place on Lake Rayburn.”

She shot him an exasperated glare. “I figured as much. But where exactly?”

He grinned. “Uh-uh. I’m not biting that line.” He turned her to him. “Julie, don’t even think about trying to sneak out and take off. Riding the Harley is out, and I know how you feel about boats and water, and you can’t make it out on foot. If you tried, you’d only get lost and endanger yourself. We’re a long way from anywhere.” He stuck his fingers in his back pockets and sniffed the air. “Besides it’s going to rain before long.”

She glanced at the sky over the water. The sun was heading down—which at least gave her a directional clue—and a few clouds streaked its face, but the weather was clear as a bell. Before she could open her mouth to refute his claim, the wind kicked up a chill breeze, and she heard the rumble of distant thunder. Or was that her stomach? Clamping her hand on her tummy, she asked haughtily, “Are you going to starve me, too?”

He chuckled. “Hadn’t planned to. Let’s see what we can rustle up in the kitchen.” He gestured for her to precede him into the cabin.

“You go ahead. I think I’ll stay out here for a while.”

He lifted one black eyebrow in a who-do-you-thinkyou’re-kidding expression.

“Oh, all right!” She stomped indignantly inside—or as indignant a stomp as she could manage in her stocking feet.

If she was going to remain Flint’s prisoner, bedamned if she was going to cook, and she told him so. While he fixed dinner, she tossed the trailing tail of her ragged dress over her arm and wandered around the cabin, looking for a way to escape. She checked every window and rattled every door. She surreptitiously scavenged through cupboards and drawers, trying to find something, anything, that might help her get away. Mostly she found fishing stuff: spools and spools of line, dozens of lures and other paraphernalia, and—voilà!—needle-nose pliers.

Glancing quickly over her shoulder to see if Flint had spotted her find, she stuffed the pliers down the front of her dress, adjusting them inside her bra so that they wouldn’t make a telltale bulge.

Divine smells coming from the stove set her stomach to rumbling again—not surprising since she’d been too nervous to eat lunch, and breakfast had been a banana. She ignored the temptations Flint was concocting and continued her scrutiny of the cabin. With only two rooms and the kitchen alcove, she soon ran out of places to look. There were only so many spots to examine in such small quarters. Before she was reduced to anxious pacing, she told herself to calm down and think. Make a plan.

Picking up a stray stack of cash, she sat down on the sofa and fanned through the banded bunch of hundred dollar bills. Her eyes narrowed as she considered the money that he’d dumped in her lap earlier. The dozens of packets still littered the recliner and the floor.

Where had so much cash come from? Had he become involved in something sinister? Her mind conjured up all sorts of terrible scenarios. Had Flint gotten mixed up in…in drugs? Panicked, she swallowed. Oh, dear heavenly days, for all she knew, he was a dope fiend or a bank robber. Or maybe—

“Julie!”

She yelped and jumped two feet off the couch. “Don’t creep up on me like that.”

“I didn’t creep. I called you twice. Dinner’s ready.”

“Oh. Uh, uh, I need to wash my hands in the bathroom.”

“Wash them at the kitchen sink.”

She patted her disheveled hair. “Well, I’d also like to straighten up a bit. Do you have a brush?”

“Sure, in the bedroom on the dresser. I’ll pour the wine.”

So much for her idea of working on those window nails in the bathroom. When Flint turned his back, she made a face, then snatched up a stack of bills and hurried to the bedroom. The cash might come in handy. She stuck the packet of money in her garter, the blue one that she should have been tossing to prospective grooms about now. Her family must be wild with distress. She only hoped that they didn’t alarm the children.

When she saw her reflection in the mirror, she didn’t even care that she was a mess. Her lipstick was gone, and her mascara was runny and smeared. The circlet of roses and the attached veil had been blown off in the wild ride. Only one limp rose dangled at her temple. She plucked it from her hair and tossed it aside. After removing the pins, she gave her tangled mop a good brushing, then ripped a strip from her dress and tied the scrap around the hair she gathered at the nape of her neck.

She tried to do something with her mascara, but her efforts only made matters worse. Lips pursed, she marched back into the kitchen area and announced, “Flint, I look like a raccoon. I need to wash my face in the bathroom where I can see what I’m doing.”

He grinned. “Okay. Come on. But hurry up. Our dinner will get cold.”

After he escorted her to the bathroom on the porch, Julie cleaned the mascara streaks in thirty seconds. Leaving the water running, she yanked the pliers from her bosom and went to work on the nails. She had one nail out and another loose when Flint knocked on the door.

“Come on, sugar. Our dinner’s getting cold.”

She muttered a curse. “Just a minute,” she called. She pulled out the second nail and quickly stuck the pliers beneath a plunger in the corner. She turned off the water, turned on a smile and opened the door. “I’m ready.”

Inside, the table was set, a candle was lit and soft music played on a radio. He held her chair as she sat down.

Worry about her predicament should have taken away her appetite. It didn’t. She was famished. And common sense told her that if she was going to escape, she needed to keep up her strength. Besides, the food was delicious. Beyond delicious.

Fish sautéed in mushrooms and herbs, pasta in a delicately seasoned cream sauce, cold asparagus marinated in olive oil and balsamic vinegar with sun-dried tomatoes. And the wine was fabulous.

“Enjoying your dinner?” he asked.

She looked up from shoveling in a mouthful of pasta. He toyed with the stem of his wineglass while he watched her. Amusement played around the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed to have been caught stuffing food in her mouth like a starving refugee, she put down her fork and delicately dabbed her lips with her napkin.

“It’s quite tasty. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“In California.”

“I see.”

“Want to know what I was doing in California?”

“Not particularly.” She chugalugged the rest of her wine. He filled her glass again.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She nodded toward his untouched fork and picked up her own. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’d rather watch you.”

“Well, don’t,” she said, lifting a bite of fish to her mouth. “It makes me nervous.”

“It makes me horny.”

Her fork clattered to her plate. “Damn you, Flint Durham, don’t say things like that to me.”

“Would you want me to lie?” His voice was barely a whisper.

His eyes, smoldering like a banked camp fire, bored into hers. A tendril of raw sensual awareness traveled between them and stroked her skin. Quivering sensation rippled over her. She tried to glance away, but she was helplessly mesmerized by the potent allure of his dark eyes. Black with longing, they seemed to draw her into their depths, mesmerize her with memories of a passionate past.

A low throb began building in her body, quickening her pulse and stealing her breath. Knowing that she was flirting with disaster didn’t stifle the feelings. The forbidden enticement seemed only to fan the flames. The attraction was still there, stronger than ever, as if it had been secretly intensifying beneath the surface for six long years. She struggled, waging an inner battle between desire and dignity.

Abruptly, Julie sprang to her feet. Her chair overturned and crashed to the floor. “Don’t do that!” she shouted.

“Don’t do what, darlin’?”

“Don’t look at me that way.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile. “What way is that?”

“As if…as if I were dessert.”

His smile broadened. “You want dessert?”

“No. I’ve had quite enough! I want to go home. Now.” She had to get away from him. She had to. Six years’ worth of barriers erected from bitterness and disillusionment were beginning to crack. She wouldn’t let that happen.

“Sorry, babe. Not yet. Not until we talk, really talk.”

“I have nothing more to say to you. I want to brush my teeth. Do you happen to have an extra toothbrush?”

“I think there’s one in the bathroom.”

Spine stiffened, she walked to the rear door and waited until Flint unlocked it.

As soon as she was in the bathroom, she turned on the water and grabbed the pliers. With strength born of desperation, she yanked out the three remaining nails in the window. Her heart hammering like crazy, she tugged it upward. It stuck briefly, then slid open. She blew out a relieved breath. Standing on the toilet, she hitched up her torn dress and threw one leg over the windowsill.

“Julie!”

She froze.

Flint rapped on the door. “Julie, are you okay in there?”

“Dammit, Flint! Would you at least allow me some privacy? I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, sounding contrite.

She poked her head out the window and surveyed her surroundings. In the gathering dusk, the lake was still. The woods were hushed. The ground beneath the window was only a few feet down. Maneuvering herself through the opening, she held on to the sill, then dropped.

She landed ankle deep in muck.

Oh, gross. She stilled, listening for a second, then scrambled up the bank.

Sharp stones and stickers shredded her stockings and punished her tender feet. Shoes. She had to have shoes. Wincing with every step, she hurried to the spot where her silk pumps were still stuck heel deep in the ground. She grabbed them up and, dancing on first one foot, then the other, stuck them on her muddy feet.

Hoping against hope that Flint had left the key in the Harley, she ran to the motorcycle. No such luck. Panicked urgency growing, she hesitated, her darting eyes scanning the densely wooded area, trying to decide which way to go, what to do next. She couldn’t try for the boat; it was moored just beneath Flint’s feet. After spotting an outbuilding through the trees, she dashed toward it, praying that it held transportation.

She flung open the door and almost wept with joy. A pickup truck!

Her joy was short-lived. No key.

Panic increased, clawed at her insides until she thought that she would scream.

Wait!

In the corner.

A bicycle.

It wasn’t in the best shape—in fact, it was in pretty sorry shape—but it would do. She pushed it to the door and, after peering around the opening, pushed it outside. The frame was a little bent, and the back tire was almost flat, but it was transportation.

A streak of lightning flashed. She heard Flint bellow her name just before a boom of thunder rolled through the trees. The wind picked up, whipping branches and snatching at leaves, ballooning her skirt. Batting at the billowing silk, then gathering her tattered hem into a wad, Julie gritted her teeth and climbed on the bicycle.

She didn’t look back. She didn’t dare. She picked a likely direction and started pedaling the wobbly bike as fast as her legs would churn.

Four

Pedaling in high heels was murder, and no matter how much she wrestled with it, the tail of Julie’s bedraggled wedding dress kept getting caught in the spokes. She hadn’t gone a quarter of a mile, and already she was exhausted from trying to make headway on the decrepit bike. Only stubborn determination kept her herding the rickety thing down the lane in the fastfading light. At best, she had only a half hour before dark. She had to get home to her babies, who were sure to be upset and frightened, and to her family, who was bound to be frantic by now. And to Rob, of course.

Another boom of thunder struck, reverberating through the dense woods. The wind plucked at the yards of material tucked around her. She slapped away flapping fabric as the air grew chill and the tops of tall trees swished and swayed. When the first big splats of rain hit, she groaned. Oh, no. Please, no.

The tempo of the pelting raindrops increased. The sky darkened until she could barely see where she was going, and the drops rapidly escalated until they became a hard downpour.

Behind her a motor roared to life.

Her heart caught.

She pedaled faster, but as the dirt road turned to mud, the going got tougher. She could hear the engine of the Harley coming closer and see the headlight cutting through the torrent.

The rain plastered her hair to her head, rivulets of water ran off her chin, and her dress had turned into a sodden anchor when Flint pulled aside.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled over the howl of the storm.

“I’m going home,” she yelled back, never taking her eyes off the road.

“You can’t get home on that thing and in this storm. You’re going to break your fool neck. Come get on with me, and let’s get out of the rain.”

“Stick it in your ear, Flint Durham! I’m going home.”

Julie pumped the pedals with everything she had, but she wasn’t gaining much ground. The bike grew more and more wobbly, and she had to fight to keep it straight. Her arms and legs quivered from the strain. She knew that she couldn’t go on much longer, but she’d rather eat liver than admit it to Flint.

Suddenly she hit a hole. The jolt snatched the handlebars from her grip. The bicycle went one way; she went another. With a teeth-jarring splat, she belly flopped into a puddle. She spat, sputtered and cursed, then rolled over onto her back. As she lay spread-eagle in the middle of the oozing mud, she squinted at the sky and conceded defeat to the evil rain god that pummeled her. Dejected, disgusted, she closed her eyes and let the weather do its worst. She couldn’t get any more soaked, and she was too damned exhausted to care.

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