How many secrets can one man really have?

Tara Hawkins may be the baby of the family, but she’s ready to prove to her siblings she can make it on her own. And she’s betting everything on the success of her diner. Trucker Morgan Thane quickly becomes a repeat customer...and a tempting distraction she can’t afford. The energy between them is overwhelming, yet Tara wonders just how she can trust a man who is hiding so many secrets—a man who’s almost out of hope. When she discovers his heartbreaking reason for being in Haskins Corners, her feelings for him only grow. And the deeper she falls, the closer Tara comes to losing her dream and her heart.

“Are you going to answer me?”

Morgan wanted to reach over and haul Tara close. He knew he had to resist, but what a temptation she was. He ached. He knew he had to face her, had to look at her, had to tell her the truth and risk—no, probably guarantee—it would push her away.

“Go home, Tara. Or back to the diner,” he said softly, slowly turning his head to look at her, clenching the steering wheel in a death grip.

“Not until you answer me.” She settled into the truck’s seat. “Are you coming back?”

The silence was thick. “No. Coming back would be a mistake.”

It took her a while to digest that. “Why?” she finally whispered.

Morgan’s heart sank to somewhere deep in his gut. He paused, not wanting to see the reaction on her face, not wanting to see her hurt, anger or disappointment. He squared his shoulders. The words sat bitter in his stomach before he let them go.

“Tara. I’m...married.”

Dear Reader,

The A Chair at the Hawkins Table series continues with Tara and Morgan’s story. If you’ve read my other books, you’ve met Tara. Her talent and desire to cook great meals for the people she loves is a big part of what defines her.

When I sat down to figure out her story, I struggled with what kind of man would be her forever love.

At that time, I’d reconnected with a childhood friend on social media and we were revisiting a ton of memories from the old neighborhood. My friend was the youngest child in her family, just like Tara, and her father was a trucker who was often gone for long stretches at a time.

It occurred to me that the man for Tara would come into her life through her cooking. The Someday Café and Morgan were born with that realization. I saw him in my imagination sitting on that stool at the end of the counter—just like where Tara first meets him.

I hope you enjoy Tara and Morgan’s story, and visit the rest of her extended family, here and in their respective books. They really are quite a family.

Please feel free to contact me at angel@angelsmits.com, www.angelsmits.com or at 5740 N Carefree Circle, Suite 120-4, Colorado Springs, CO 80917.

Angel Smits

Last Chance at the Someday Café

Angel Smits

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANGEL SMITS shares a big yellow house, complete with gingerbread and a porch swing, in Colorado with her husband, daughter and Maggie, their border collie mix. Winning the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart® Award was the highlight of her writing career, until her first Harlequin book hit the shelves. Her social work background inspires her characters while improv writing allows her to torture them. It’s a rough job, but someone’s got to do it.

This is for all the kids who grew up with me in the old neighborhood. Lisa, Barry, Larry, Greg, Debbie, Matt, Dan, Julie, Steve, Janet, Jamie, Colleen, Betty and April. Riding bikes, running the streets, climbing trees, shooting fireworks and trick-or-treating were that much more fun with all of you. Thanks for the memories.

And to Ron, for making being a grown-up just as much fun!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

TARA HAWKINS WALKED in through the front door of her childhood home for the last time. She’d only been here a couple times since Mom’s funeral, and now the house had sold. Tomorrow, someone else would start a new life here.

But tonight, one last time, it was theirs.

The foyer was empty. No coats on the hall tree. No shoes distractedly kicked off. The living room beyond was just as empty. Everything was stripped from the walls. No pictures. No furniture. Only the curtains at the front window fluttering in the breeze. It looked abandoned.

Her running shoes slapped against the newly polished wood floor. She kept moving, hurrying down the hall to escape the emptiness that threatened to reach out and suck her in.

Tonight, everyone was supposed to be here—all five of her siblings, maybe a couple in-laws and at least one nephew, possibly two. She was the last to arrive—again. They’d all give her a rough time about it. As usual. But this time, she had an excuse. She didn’t want to be here. But then, neither did they. Not really.

They’d gather in the kitchen. The big kitchen had always represented home to Tara. She heard their voices in a harmonic flow that reached to her and soothed her grief.

Wyatt’s deep growl. Mandy’s high-pitched voice cooing to little Lucas. DJ’s laughter mingled with Jason’s soft chuckles. She didn’t hear Addie, which meant... Tara hustled down the hall.

Addie stood at the counter, a big glass bowl of cookie dough in front of her, and scattered tools that she’d obviously brought with her at her elbow. Addie made the best cookies. Looked like there would be one last batch made here in Mom’s kitchen.

Playful cheers went up as Tara entered. “About time,” DJ teased.

“I was hoping to get her share of the cookies,” Wyatt added with mock disappointment.

“Very funny.” Tara rolled her eyes as she snagged one of the folding chairs. The dining table was staying with the house, too big and heavy to move, and the new owner, according to Addie, was happy to have it. All the chairs, however, were gone. When Mom had passed away, the chairs had been precious reminders of home. They’d each taken theirs with them. Tara’s was in the spare bedroom of her apartment.

But she had plans for it. Such big plans. Her stomach flipped as she settled next to DJ. They didn’t know. Well, most of them didn’t know. Jason, her older brother and one of the smartest attorneys she’d ever met—and she was only slightly biased—knew. She’d consulted him and sworn him to secrecy. He’d never violate lawyer-client privilege—even for family.

He winked at her, and she mentally grinned. She sat back and watched Addie work, enthralled with her sister’s confident actions. Was that what Tara looked like in her own kitchen? She hoped so.

She’d grown up helping their mother cook, and it had been the one thing she’d shared with Mom. Her sisters helped with big meals like holidays, but mostly it had been just Tara and Mom. The ache in her chest eased just a bit as she watched her big sister step into Mom’s role.

“I’ve never asked you where you got that recipe.” It hadn’t been Mom’s.

Addie shrugged. “I made it up.”

“You what?”

“Yeah.” Addie looked over her shoulder and smiled at Tara’s surprise. “You’re not the only cook in the family.”

“I know that.” Tara tried to dismiss her sister’s teasing, accusatory comment.

“Oh, that reminds me.” Addie shoved a cookie sheet into the heated oven and set the timer before turning around. “I found this.” She pulled open the pantry door, lifted out a box that had definitely seen better days, then set it on the table.

“What’s that?” Tara and the others stared at the battered cardboard box.

“Open it.” Addie returned to the cookies.

Tara pushed the chair back as she stood and opened the flaps. Book spines. A rubber-banded stack of cards. Recipe cards. She gasped. “Where did you find them?” She pulled out the stack of stained, tattered cards. When was the last time she’d seen them? “Mom’s and Grandma’s?” She shuffled through them slowly, carefully—reverently.

“I think so.” Addie looked up with a smile. “You’d know better than I would. They were in the back of the pantry.”

Tara’s throat ached as memories bloomed in her mind. Of Mom shuffling through these same cards. Sticking the needed card in between the loose frame of a cabinet door. Her gaze turned to that familiar cupboard door next to Addie now. It had never been repaired. Her vision blurred.

She swiped at her eyes and looked at Jason. She frowned. Why give her these today? “Did you tell them?”

He shook his head. “No, I didn’t say a thing.”

“Tell us what?” Wyatt asked. Seconds ticked by as Tara’s gaze locked with Jason’s. He simply shrugged. He wasn’t helping. It was up to her.

“I—” Her excitement grew and with an emerging smile that suddenly made it all feel real, she finished, “I bought the diner in Haskins Corners.” She hugged the precious recipe cards to her chest. “We closed the deal today.”

Tara looked around, hoping for smiles and congratulations. The silent stares were not what she’d expected. She knew she’d shocked them all, but this silence was heavy. The buzz of the timer going off was especially loud.

“Oh.” Addie broke the trance and pulled the cookie sheet out of the oven. The scent of chocolatey, peanut buttery deliciousness wound through the room, nudging everyone to awareness. They didn’t, however, smile.

She hadn’t expected total excitement from them, but neither had she expected this—what did she even call it—lack of support? Surprise?

“That’s an awfully big commitment.” DJ was frowning. “Especially for someone so—”

“Don’t say it.” She hated when they pointed out her faults.

“Young.” He leaned closer, his frown deepening, if that were possible. “Not saying it doesn’t make you any older.”

“Now, DJ.” Mandy hoisted Lucas up on her shoulder and gently patted his back in a rhythmic caress. “She’s always talked about this. That’s not a huge surprise.”

“But it is a bit of a surprise now.” Addie slowly scooped cookies off the sheet. “Why didn’t you tell us before you committed to it?”

“Because I didn’t need your help. Just Jason’s legal advice.”

“And you didn’t tell us?” Addie shook her spatula at Jason.

“Client-lawyer privilege. Sorry, it’s business.”

“That’s no excuse.” Addie roughly scooped dough from the bowl and plopped it onto the cookie sheet with an uncharacteristic thunk. “This is family.”

“Addie.” Wyatt’s voice filled with warning, and while Tara appreciated the support, his scowl told her he wasn’t any happier.

“Hon, don’t take this wrong.” Mandy put her hand over Tara’s. “We just care so much about you.”

“You all know me.” Tara’s indignation rose and her throat ached. She was not going to cry or lose her temper. She’d expected congratulations, not—not this. “You know I’ve dreamed about this since I was a kid.”

“Yes, but—” Addie wiped her hands on a towel. “This is such a big step. We expected you to work for someone else, in a fancy restaurant for a while. Learn about business before taking such a leap.”

“You know I wouldn’t let her go totally stupid, right?” Jason tried to reassure them, but that only made Tara angrier.

“It wasn’t your choice. Any of you.” She let her gaze move around the room, meeting everyone’s stare until landing on Jason’s. “I asked for your advice as a lawyer. That’s all.”

“And I gave it,” he reminded her. “It’s a good deal,” he told the rest of them. “She got a bargain and the interest rate on the loan was excellent.”

“Loan?” Wyatt snapped.

“Yes, loan.” Tara knew Wyatt’s philosophy on debt. Combine his overprotectiveness with his experience seeing his colleagues in the ranching industry fall under debt, and she knew she’d hit a nerve. “I used my inheritance for most of it, but it wasn’t enough.” She glared at Jason. They didn’t need to know the details. That’s why she hadn’t told them in the first place.

“You let her go into debt for this?” Wyatt snatched one of Addie’s fresh cookies and bit into it, hard. “What were you thinking?”

“She can handle it. It’s a solid deal.”

She didn’t need Jason to defend her, and Wyatt needed to back off. “Hellooo...” She waved her hands. “I’m still here.”

Addie put the second batch into the oven, then turned to lean against the counter, arms crossed in front of her. Her frown said more than Tara wanted to hear. She looked so much like Mom when she did that. Tara’s heart hurt.

But Mom would have supported her. She wouldn’t have gotten upset about this. Oh, Mom. I miss you, she mentally whispered. Mom had always encouraged her to follow her dreams, like she had for all of them.

And Tara was not giving up on this dream.

DJ must have seen her stubbornness on her face. “We aren’t angry with you. Do you really think you’re ready for this?”

Tara knew she was ready, but damn it, they were making her doubt herself. As the youngest, she had always felt the weight of her siblings’ shadows. She slowly looked around the room full of people she loved. Their frowns said it all.

Addie and Wyatt shared a glance. An all-too-familiar glance that spoke volumes. Tara’s emotions bubbled to the surface. “You don’t believe in me!”

They both actually had the nerve to look surprised. “We didn’t say that,” Addie said.

“You don’t have to say it.” Tara threw up her hands. “It’s all in that look.”

Tara marched to the door, wishing and praying someone would stop her and deny all her fears, reassure her that she’d misunderstood, that she was wrong, that they did have total faith in her.

No one spoke. The only sound was each of her steps through the empty rooms and finally the smack of the front door banging against its frame.

She kept walking across the yard. “Do not cry,” she repeated half a dozen times before she reached her bright red Jeep and climbed in. She slammed the door and rammed her foot on the gas before tearing out of the drive.

“I’ll show you,” she said to the rearview mirror. “I’ll show you all,” she repeated to the dust cloud that rose up behind her as she headed toward the highway.

* * *

SILENCE SUDDENLY FILLED the room, telling Morgan Thane he wasn’t alone. The driving rock beat had swiftly faded away as his younger brother, Jack, turned down the volume on the stereo.

The weights in Morgan’s fists still moved rhythmically, the soft clink of metal on metal now the only sound left.

“Do you even know what silence sounds like?” Jack asked, pulling his own earbuds free.

“You’re listening to your own tunes.” Morgan pointed at the earbuds Jack never went anywhere without.

“This is white noise to drown out your racket. That stuff gives me hives.”

“Stuff?” Morgan tried to look insulted. “Stuff? College-educated guy like yourself can’t come up with a better word than stuff?”

“Nope.” Jack stepped farther into the room, leaving his phone on the table while he went to the fridge.

Morgan watched Jack move across the apartment. It wasn’t big, so it didn’t take him long. He knew his brother. He knew that body language. Trouble. Something was wrong. “You going to tell me what’s up, or am I supposed to guess?”

Jack yanked open the refrigerator. “You got any more of those energy drinks?”

“Yeah. Back of the second shelf.” Morgan knew where every single item he owned was located. He’d always been that way, and after having so little as a kid—and with his soon-to-be-ex, Sylvie, taking off with everything else—he’d become a bit obsessed about it.

Jack reached in for a can, then popped the top. After he’d downed half the drink, he walked over to the computer to boot it up. He set down the drink, then settled in the old kitchen chair that doubled as a desk chair. He didn’t say a word.

Morgan didn’t stop. He was only three quarters of the way through his workout. So, the only sounds that broke the apartment’s quiet were the hum of the computer fan and the easy rhythm of the weights against the bar as Morgan worked on curls.

Finally done, Morgan set down the weights. “Okay, spit it out.” He grabbed the towel and his water bottle, letting himself cool down before diving into whatever Jack was working on.

“I’m looking for a load for you so this trip won’t be a complete waste.”

That quieted Morgan’s next comments. Their company had several over-the-road hauling contracts. But what Jack was best at, and what had made them successful, was his brokering skills. The rest of the crew worked on everyday loads. But Morgan had a mission that had nothing to do with their regular customers, and if Jack could get him one-time loads, it paid well. As long as you weren’t picky about what was riding behind you.

And Morgan wasn’t. Morgan was freestyling as he hunted for his ex, who’d taken off with their daughter before the divorce and custody agreement had been finalized.

Nearly a year had passed since Morgan had seen his daughter, Brooke. She was supposed to start school this fall, and Morgan refused to think about her doing so anywhere but home, refused to even entertain the idea that she might actually not start school at all. Sylvie wasn’t that organized or dedicated to anything.

Despite finishing his workout, Morgan nearly started lifting the weights again. Frustrated energy was the worst to burn off.

“So where you headed next?” Jack asked, without looking up from the computer screen.

When Sylvie had first disappeared, and Morgan had decided to hunt for her and Brooke, Jack had bought him a map of the entire United States that dominated one wall.

They both knew Sylvie well enough to know she wasn’t going to take Brooke out of the States, but there were forty-eight of them and he’d driven through most of them trying to find her.

That US map had eventually been covered up by a new one of just the western states. It had taken only a couple months to narrow down where she’d gone. The network of truckers Morgan and his crew knew had provided a lot of the early information. Following the trail of credit cards had also helped—until Sylvie apparently realized she was leaving a trail. Now it was a map of just Texas. At least she’d stayed in the same state.

“Here.” Morgan swept his hand over the western part of the state, waving his hand over the area west of Austin. “There was a charge on one of her old cards last week.”

“It could have been stolen,” Jack suggested.

“Yeah. Or she could be just passing through.” But he couldn’t ignore even the smallest clue. The small bedroom communities he was heading to were kitschy tourist towns with streets lined with old junkshops, eclectic restaurants and run-down motels. Sylvie territory.

No place for a child. Especially his child.

His frustration at not having found her, and at being stupid enough to get involved with someone like Sylvie in the first place, bubbled to the surface in the form of guilt. His protective streak was too ingrained, but she hadn’t wanted his protection, hadn’t ever planned to stay.

What if he never saw Brooke again? Or worse, what if the next time he saw his daughter, she was an adult who came to find him and wanted to know why he’d never looked for her, never found her? He swallowed the panic and resisted the urge to smash something.

“Get out of your head, Morgan.” Jack’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“And you wonder why I listen to the music?”

“No, I don’t wonder.” Jack did look at Morgan this time. “Let’s get you a load, if we can. Hopefully, we can at least cover the fuel.”

“Hey.” Morgan pulled out a chair, spinning, then straddling it, stacking his thick arms on top of the back. “How much is this straining the business? Is it making it too rough on you?”

Jack didn’t stop typing, his fingers smacking the keys loud and hard. “No. We’re tight, like we always are, but we’re good.”

“Are you sure?” The tension Morgan could see in his brother’s shoulders denied the reassurances.

“Even if we aren’t?” Jack stopped typing and looked up. “She’s important to me, too. She’s my niece, Morgan. This is my mission, too. So get to work. I’ll get you a load.” He went back to typing.

“Thanks.” Morgan stood and carefully put the chair back. “I’m taking the truck for a bath. I’ll start my checks after we grab dinner.”

Jack nodded. “I’ll have your route mapped out by then.”

Outside, the afternoon sun was bright, but the wind was cold, cutting through him. He’d left his jacket in the truck, not needing it this morning. He smelled damp in the air. Sucky start of a run.

There’d been way too much rain this year. And the season wasn’t over yet. The last time he’d gone out, he’d been stuck in El Paso for two days, unable to get back because of the flooding. This time, if he got stuck, maybe it’d be closer to either Sylvie and Brooke, or home.

The big Peterbilt roared to life, purring beneath his hands, rumbling as he pulled across the yard. Nearly a dozen trailers sat parked inside the fence. These were empty right now, but by tomorrow, Jack would work his magic and the trailers would be out of here, on their way to being loaded, then delivered.

Two men headed toward the office. Phil and Brian—good men. Jack knew the crew better than he did these days. When was the last time Morgan had taken the chance to chat with them? He missed that. Missed time with his brother. He closed his eyes for an instant. He just missed downtime.

But finding Brooke was more important.

And if he missed anything, it was her.

He drove out of the yard, under the big steel sign he’d been so proud to hang—Thane Brothers Trucking. He’d worked damned hard to build this company. Hell, he still did, but what good was it doing any of them?

Damn Sylvie. He sighed and flipped on the stereo. Blaring the hard rock forced the emotions out of his head. He steered to the truck wash, not letting himself dwell on what did—or did not—lay ahead on this trip. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could do this, how much longer he could ask Jack and the others to shoulder his share of the load.

Sitting there, waiting for the attendant to guide him into place, Morgan wrestled with his indecision.

This run had to be a success. He had to find Brooke. When he’d first reported them missing, the authorities had done what they could. They kept him informed. But it wasn’t fast enough. Yesterday wasn’t soon enough to have his daughter back.

Morgan was running out of time. He knew it. He’d never stop looking, never stop searching for her. But he also knew Jack was lying to him. Things were tight, too tight. Jack needed him to get back in the office, to help run the company they’d built together. Morgan needed to do his job. He owed Jack and his crew that.

Damn it.

He couldn’t ask his brother or his men to sacrifice anything more. This had to be his last run. Either he found them and came home—or he didn’t and he gave up on this quest.

It was the right decision.

So why did it make his heart ache?

* * *

TIRED BEYOND BELIEF, Tara brushed the soft blue paint around the last doorframe. Doing the painting herself was one way she could save money on this venture. Over halfway done, she smiled. Done. What a lovely word.

Once these two walls were finished—and the furniture brought in—the Someday Café would be one step closer to reality. She’d be one step closer to true independence.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice came across the empty dining room, startling Tara. She’d thought she was alone. Her arms ached, and she hoped to finish soon. She didn’t have time for interruptions.

Still, she settled the brush on top of the paint can and turned. She knew she didn’t look her best. A shadow of blue teased at the corner of her eye. Honestly? She had paint in her hair? Again?

The woman standing in the doorway wasn’t anyone Tara knew. “Can I help you?” She wiped her hands on the tail of her paint shirt.

“Uh, yeah.” The woman stepped forward, extending a hand tipped with black-lacquered fingernails. “I’m Sylvie.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I thought you might be hiring.”

She was, but something about the woman jarred Tara. Maybe it was the black nails? Or maybe the pink-and-blue spiked hair? No. She squinted, trying to figure it out. The midnight blue lipstick on the lips that sported two metal rings? What’d they call those things? Snake bites? Ouch.

The youngest of six kids whose father had died when she was two, Tara had been coddled and nearly spoiled by her family—which sometimes left her ill-prepared for a world beyond their loving arms.

And leery of strangers. Like this Sylvie. But Tara knew it wasn’t the woman’s outer appearance that made her pause. No, it was the bloodshot eyes that lacked any warmth or caring.

“We won’t be open for a few more weeks.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I have a job at the T-shirt shop—my real one—so I’m not in any big rush.”

“Uh-huh.” Tara bit her tongue, holding back the question she knew she couldn’t utter. This wasn’t a real job? This place that had taken every dime of her savings and inheritance and then some? This restaurant that was her dream, and yet the hardest thing she’d ever done, wasn’t a “real” business?

Tell her aching muscles that.

Tara racked her brain for an excuse to end this conversation and get back to work. “Well, as you can see, I’m busy right now.” She gestured at the paint and drop cloths. “Maybe in a week or so I can get started on the applicants.” She’d already scheduled two interviews, but something told her she shouldn’t tell this woman that.

“Sure. I’ll come back.” Sylvie smiled and spun on her heel. At the doorway, she stopped and looked back. “This will look really cool when you’re done. But that old blue is awful. White’ll really brighten up the place.”

“Really?” Tara couldn’t hide her sarcasm. Keeping her mouth shut had never been a strength.

“Definitely. I studied design in school for a while. White is like a blank canvas.” She spread her arms wide. “I could help you design a whole new place.”

Tara didn’t want a whole new place. “Uh, thanks. I’ll let you know.” Tara could only stare, hoping the woman wouldn’t return. She left the way she’d come, the door slamming closed behind her.

Tara looked at the light blue paint she’d agonized over choosing and had spent the better part of a week putting on the walls. It was perfect and would look beautiful—she hoped—with the lace curtains she’d ordered.

The old-fashioned, homey, wood furniture was in storage until she finished painting, and the oak floor was scheduled to be refinished later this week.

Picturing those black fingernails putting out the lace doilies she’d bought at the flea market last week made Tara cringe.

No, Sylvie wasn’t a good match for this place. She was too rough. Too edgy. This place had no edge. It was about comfort food and relaxation.

Turning to her work, Tara forced herself to slow down and not slap the paintbrush against the wall. Old blue? Really? She reached for the long-handled roller and started on the next wall, all thoughts of taking a break gone.

As she worked, her brain kept time with the rhythm of the roller. Was she doing the right thing? Up. She’d worked too hard to have doubts now. Down. What if everyone thought like Sylvie? Up. Not everyone had blue hair. Down.

The light shifted and the streak of blue in her own blond hair caught her eye again. Present company excepted. “I am not like her,” she said aloud.

“Not like who?”

Startling her worse than Sylvie had, DJ came into the room. Tara dropped the paint roller, which landed with a sloppy plop on the wood floor, flinging more paint in the air—most likely adding to her hair.

“Good thing you’re refinishing that,” he said, unruffled as usual. He carefully made his way across the room. His back must be bothering him today since he moved slowly. Though he was healed, DJ would never be a hundred percent like he was before he’d been wounded in Afghanistan.

“Why are you here?” She bent to pick up the roller and wiped up as much of the paint as she could.

“Grumpy today?” He lifted a white bag with a familiar logo on it. Her favorite burger joint. “Is that any way to greet the person saving you from starvation?”

“I’m fine.” Her stomach rumbled just to make a liar out of her.

“Uh-huh.”

He carried the bag over to the diner’s long counter. She’d covered it with an old sheet while she worked, and he pushed it away, exposing the beautiful hand-carved surface.

Seeing it went a long way toward reassuring her that buying this place was a good idea. She’d fallen in love with the counter the first time she’d seen it, and it still amazed her it was now hers.

The scent of her favorite burger made her mouth water. “What’s this?” She climbed up on one of the low vinyl stools that were anchored on chrome pedestals to the floor. “Bribery?”

“A peace offering.” He had the grace to look chagrined. “We weren’t very supportive the other day.”

“You think?” She stared at him.

“Here.” He fished a burger out of the bag and put it on the counter. On the tail of that delicious aroma, the container of fries emitted a wonderful smell of grease and heat.

Tara bit into the luscious burger, savoring the warm juices that exploded in her mouth. She loved to cook, but years ago, she’d learned the value of letting someone else cook sometimes. This was one of those times. She did have a danged good burger on the menu, but this one she didn’t have to make herself.

And it tasted like heaven.

“If you love these burgers so much,” DJ said around a mouthful, “why don’t you make them yourself? Heck, I like yours better.”

“I could. But where’s the fun in that?”

“It’s looking good in here.” DJ nodded to the mostly blue walls.

“Yeah,” she agreed.

“Hey!” Another voice interrupted them. They both turned to find Addie standing there, a box in her arms, on top of which was an identical white bag emblazoned with the same logo.

“Beat you to it, sis.” DJ grinned, barely taking a break from his meal.

Addie came over and settled beside Tara. “Here I thought I had a good idea.”

“It is a good idea.” Tara reached for the new bag. “At least you all know my favorite junk food.” She grinned at Addie. “And she...” Tara nodded toward her sister with a pointed glance at DJ. “She remembered I like chocolate shakes with my fries.” She pulled out the tall cup and shoved the straw through the lid. “Yum!”

“I brought this, too.” Addie’s voice was nearly a whisper. The box from the night at Mom’s. The recipes. “Thought you might need it.”

“Thanks.” Tara ducked her head, concentrating on her food instead of the warm emotion flowing inside her.

They ate until the door opened again. Wyatt came in and froze halfway across the room. His frown made them all laugh.

“Hey, big brother,” Tara greeted him. “Come join us.” Looking at the size of the white bag in his hands, she said, “Hope you’re hungry, since there’s going to be a lot left. Is Emily with you?” She didn’t see his wife anywhere.

“No,” he growled as he settled next to Addie. “DJ, the leftovers are yours.” He shoved the bag down the counter.

“Was I just insulted?” DJ nabbed a spare pack of fries from the new bag with a wide grin. “Thanks for the fries.”

“Anytime.”

DJ shrugged. “What we don’t want, I can take home to Pork Chop and Hamlet.” His son’s pet pigs were going to feast tonight.

Tara smiled, enjoying the food and the company. “We’ve got enough for Mandy and Jason, too. Too bad they aren’t here.”

“Yeah.” Addie sat back, her eyes distant as she enjoyed her own shake. Strawberry—Tara knew without even looking—Addie’s favorite since they were kids. “I miss us all being together.” There was sadness in her voice.

“They aren’t missing us.” DJ laughed and they all joined in. Jason was in Europe on his belated honeymoon with his new bride, who was touring with a ballet company. And Mandy was with her fiancé, Lane, fighting a wildfire in Canada. Tara whispered a simple prayer that they all came home safe and sound.

“Are you going to be ready to open in time?” Addie started to gather the trash, always busy taking care of everyone.

“Relax, Ad.” Tara reached out to grasp her sister’s arm. “Just toss everything the pigs aren’t getting in that barrel.” The trash can was filled with a variety of boards, paintbrushes, plastic and everything she’d swept up. “Not like there’s anything to really clean yet.”

“You don’t need any more work,” Addie admonished. “Gentlemen, clean up after yourselves.”

The look that passed between DJ and Wyatt made Tara laugh. They looked more like the kids they used to be than the men they were. It was nice.

Tara loved these people. Her family. Her siblings. She was proud of them, proud to be one of them.

Wyatt owned and operated one of Texas’s most successful cattle ranches. DJ helped him, though her brother was still a soldier at heart despite his injuries. Addie was a teacher who focused on tough kids. Her other siblings, who weren’t here—though they would be if they were in the state—were just as successful.

She was determined to be successful, too.

She looked around at the half-done diner she was trying to turn into a popular, busy restaurant. Their comments and reactions from the other night returned and sparked her feeling of inadequacy again.

What if their concerns were proven right and she failed? What if no one came here to eat? What if that Sylvie woman was right and it was an ugly mistake? The delicious burger turned to dust in her mouth.

Tara felt an arm slip around her. “Do what you always do,” Addie said softly.

“What’s that?”

“Ignore us completely.”

CHAPTER TWO

TARA’S INSPIRATION FOR the Someday Café had come from the kitchen where she’d grown up. Mom’s kitchen had been the warmest, most wondrous place in all the world—the center of the house and the center of Tara’s life. When Mom had died, Tara had grieved nearly as much about losing her safe place as she had about losing the woman she’d loved.

Now, with the café’s walls painted the soft, robin’s-egg blue, the wood floor newly refinished and all the counters and appliances fixed and cleaned, the large room sat empty.

Not for long.

She’d spent the past few months—in between meetings with Jason about the legalities, real estate and staff—roaming yard sales and flea markets to find the perfect things to decorate her new space. Now all those things were coming out of storage.

First, though, she purposefully went out to the truck and gently lifted the dining room chair that she’d taken from Mom’s place the day after the funeral.

Each of her siblings had the chair that meant the most to them. None of them matched, actually. Mom and Dad had bought the dining room set, the thick table and six chairs, at a garage sale when they were newlyweds. Six kids had done a number on nearly every chair in the house.

Tara wasn’t even sure if any of the ones they had taken were originals. The final set was a mismatched bunch of wooden chairs. Some with ladder backs. Some with straight backs. Some with curved wooden arms. Some without.

All precious and familiar.

Wyatt had the big captain’s chair with its curved arms and sturdy back that had been Dad’s. The finish on both arms was thin from Dad’s movements, rubbing the wood when he was deep in thought, and later from when DJ had had to use the arms to stand after he’d come home injured.

This one had always been hers. As the youngest, she’d been the smallest, so the Jenny Lind style had fit her best. She’d loved it. Still did.

Carrying it in, she set it near the long diner counter that was lined with the only seating places at the moment. Perfect.

“Where do you want this?” DJ’s voice echoed in the empty space. He easily carried the square wood table over his broad shoulders. She smiled and pointed to the corner.

She’d planned where every single piece was going to go. She’d imagined it all.

Wyatt and Lane came in with an oval dining table. “Right here.” Smack in the middle of the room. The biggest table, it would be the centerpiece for larger parties and events.

“I got this one, Aunt Tara.” Tyler had a lone chair—his enthusiasm warmed her. He had the same determined look as his father had carrying the table.

“Put that by the table your dad just set down.”

For the next hour, they all carried furniture and arranged to her directions the assorted, mismatched tables and chairs. Then finally, once the room was full, they brought in the boxes of knickknacks and decorations.

DJ started hanging pictures where she indicated. Tyler watched and handed him nails from a bucket.

Finally, as the sun slanted through the French doors that looked out over the wide stone patio she hadn’t even started on yet, she stepped back and admired their handiwork. She smiled with pride and anticipation. Things were finally coming together.

Wyatt came to stand beside her and slipped his arm around her shoulders. “You did good. It looks great. Mom would love it.”

For the first time since Mom had passed away, Tara felt at home. She smiled at her brother and hugged him. “Thanks for helping.”

“Anytime.”

Tyler walked over and grinned. “So, when do we get to eat?”

The room filled with laughter and Tara couldn’t resist joining in. Everything was falling into place, just as she planned, just as it was supposed to be.

* * *

MORGAN CRANKED THE stereo in the semi’s cab. The windows practically rattled, and he was certain he’d lost at least a couple years of hearing in his old age. He didn’t care. He needed something to get this anger and frustration out of his system. Geddy Lee’s voice with a screaming guitar at full volume was the perfect solution.

Outside the windshield, the sun fell behind the horizon, a fiery ball of light that painted the west Texas hills with a wide, red brush. This was normally what he loved about driving. But tonight? He just wanted this trip to end. He wanted this chapter of his life done. He was ready to move on.

The past week had brought nothing. No new info. No more sightings. Nothing. Damn it, Sylvie was still screwing up things.

Was he a bad father for even wondering if he should quit looking for her and Brooke? He wouldn’t, and he couldn’t, but some days he flirted with the idea of letting go. Of just giving up.

He didn’t think Sylvie would ever really hurt Brooke. In her way, she loved their daughter. But Sylvie thought of the girl as a mini-adult, expecting her to do things a kid had no clue about. Brooke took care of Sylvie more than Sylvie took care of Brooke.

No, Sylvie wouldn’t ever intentionally physically hurt her, but she’d easily neglect and emotionally scar Brooke with her expectations.

That was worse—if there was such a thing as worse—abuse.

He’d promised himself this was his last serious run. Didn’t mean he would stop looking, he just had to do it differently. Despite good intentions, the police were too overwhelmed to focus on a year-old case. He’d already talked to a private investigator who could take on the search. But Morgan knew no one would put the heart and energy into the hunt like he had.

Like that had gotten him anywhere. Sylvie and Brooke were still missing. Maybe it was time to hire someone who actually knew how to do this. All he needed was the money to pay for it.

Morgan didn’t hear his phone ring, but the lit-up screen caught his eye. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, but Jack rarely called. And when he did, it was usually business-related.

Pausing the pounding beat, Morgan answered, “Yeah?”

“Hey.” Jack’s voice was soft. Strange.

“What’s the matter?”

Silence. Heavy and thick. “Nothing’s the matter.” Another long pause. “We got a lead on Sylvie.”

“What?” Big rigs did not stop on a dime, but Morgan couldn’t drive. Not now. He wanted to hear every nuance of this conversation. “Let me pull over.”

Time stretched out as Morgan slowed and eased the eighteen-wheeler to a safe place along the side of the road, a spot barely wide enough for the trailer, but enough for him to feel safe on this deserted highway should anyone drive by. When he geared down the big engine, the empty countryside moved in close.

“Tell me,” he finally demanded.

“We got a call from one of Ben Walker’s drivers. He said there was a woman matching Sylvie’s description at a street fair over in Haskins Corners last week.”

“That’s it?” Why did that fill him with disappointment? Because a week had passed, and she could be anywhere by now. “Does he know for sure it was her?”

“No.” Jack was silent for a moment. “She had a little girl with her.” Another painful pause. “A girl carrying a purple dragon.”

Jack’s voice faded into the approaching night. Morgan stared at the emerging stars just above the hills and vaguely wondered why they blurred. He scrubbed a hand down his face. He wanted to scream and cry and curse all at the same time.

He’d been in Haskins Corners yesterday.

Close. So, close. He stared at the clock in the dashboard. Only a few hours away. In the opposite direction of where he was headed. Pulling a U-turn was a bitch, but doable.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jack said. “Deliver that load, Morgan. Leave the trailer. I’ll get Kyle to pick it up. Then you can head back to Haskins Corners in the morning after you’ve slept. You’re gonna need a clear head.”

“I’m going now.” He had to.

“It’ll be nearly midnight before you get there. You won’t find them. And if Sylvie sees that truck? She’ll get spooked. You could lose them again.”

Morgan hated it when his younger brother was right. He pounded his fist against the oversize steering wheel. “I know you’re right. But—” Why hadn’t he seen them? Why hadn’t he found them? “Okay,” he reluctantly agreed.

Jack ended the call, and Morgan turned the rig onto the highway, forcing himself not to floor the gas pedal, his heart and mind screaming for him to follow them instead of Jack’s common sense. But Jack was right. Morgan had to be smart about it. This time.

How many times had he driven all these small towns scattered around the Texas countryside? Dozens? Felt like hundreds. He knew the locals as well as if he was one of them.

He didn’t think Sylvie would immediately recognize this rig. They’d bought it after she’d taken off, and he’d purposefully not put the company logo on it. But she’d be suspicious of any eighteen-wheeler since he’d always driven.

And that was part of why they’d grown apart. The steering wheel survived another pounding—barely.

* * *

TARA GREW UP in a house full of brothers and sisters. One of six. As the youngest, she’d been the “cute” little sister. From the moment at Dad’s funeral where everyone looked at her with that “poor little baby” look, clear up until last week when she’d gotten her final permit from the city for this restaurant, she’d struggled to be taken seriously.

Now, standing in the center of the unoccupied dining room, she wondered if she wasn’t making the biggest mistake of her life. Every penny, every drop of sweat and several drops of blood were invested in this place.

She’d finally sent everyone home. She’d hired a good crew and they’d all worked hard to put in the final touches and last-minute cleaning.

She loved the result. Loved just standing here, soaking up the sense of homecoming this place exuded.

Tomorrow, she and her staff would return and start on what they all wanted to do. Cook and serve amazing food.

Slowly, Tara walked behind the counter, through the prep area, then through the big, metal swinging doors into the spacious industrial kitchen. She turned and frowned at the nondescript door at the back of the kitchen. The door led to the tiny closet she’d converted into an office. An office that held a small desk, just big enough for her computer and printer, a small two-drawer file cabinet and her chair. The chair from her mother’s house.

Tara had been only two when their dad died, so her memories of him were vague and little more than flashes. Her brother, Wyatt, was more dad to her in her mind, though he’d been only fifteen when he’d stepped into that role.

Mom, however, was strong in her memory. Tara had been the last to leave home and had gotten the most time alone with their mother after the others had left the nest. She hadn’t realized how precious that time was until Mom was gone.

Tara walked to the door and opened it. The desk lamp lit up the room, barely. Pulling out the chair, she settled in the well-worn wooden seat. It felt so good. “I think you’d like this place, Mom,” she whispered.

She often talked to her mom’s spirit, feeling, like now, that her mother was nearby. Hoping so anyway. “I’m going to use most of your recipes.” She knew her mother wouldn’t mind. Helen Hawkins had loved to cook, loved making big batches of food. Tara had inherited that love, and Helen had been more than willing to share the kitchen with her youngest child.

Tara remembered standing on this very chair, its back pushed against the counter, to stir a mixing bowl of something with a big wooden spoon. Those had been the happiest times of her life.

For a while, she sat there, letting the contentment and sense of accomplishment settle over her. She’d done it. She’d finally done it.

Tomorrow, the doors would open and peace and quiet would vanish. Tara stood, flipped off the light and turned to leave. Closing the office door, she headed across the kitchen toward her purse and the jacket she’d draped over the rack by the door.

Her fingers curled around the fabric the same instant a horrendous crash broke the quiet of the peaceful night.

“What the—” After she’d jumped nearly a foot, she yanked open the back door, realizing too late how stupid that was. It could be anything—or anyone—out there in the darkness.

The megawatt spotlight above the door shone bright as daylight, and she blinked to adjust to the glare. One large trash can was on its side. The lid was open, half the contents scattered on the pavement.

Great, just great. Now she had a mess to clean up before she could go home. Hopefully, the new Dumpsters would be delivered soon so this wouldn’t be a common occurrence.

Sounds of something moving near the trash can made her pause. What was it? The idea of being bitten or attacked by an animal did not thrill her. “Okay, whatever you are, come out and shoo.” More rustling inside the trash can.

Whatever it was didn’t seem too scared of her. She moved closer and tried to peer inside. “Hey. Scat!” There was no way she was reaching inside. She looked around for a stick or a broom or something to use to poke at it. Nothing.

“That’s what I get for making everyone clean so thoroughly,” she mumbled. “Okay, whatever you are, go away so I can clean up and go home.” More rustling but nothing came out. Now what?

“Okay, buddy.” She stomped back into the kitchen. Maybe by the time she returned, the stupid thing would be gone. Mop in hand, she shoved open the door again, making as much noise as she could to hopefully scare the thing away. She approached the spilled trash can.

When she stopped, everything was silent. No rustling. No little feet scratching against the plastic can. Nothing but the normal night sounds that came from a distance. She smiled. It was gone.

“Hello?” Another step. “Yoo-hoo, little critter.” Another step. “Are you gone?” Nothing but silence. Slowly, she pushed the end of the broom handle into the dark interior of the trash can.

The animal came out with a screech and something furry and disgustingly wet flew past her bare legs. She screamed. She couldn’t help it. It was done before she could stop it.

Her heart pounded so hard against her ribs, it hurt. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath. “Damn it!” was the first thing she managed to say. “Ewww,” was the second. She did not want to know what was now drying on her leg. She’d find out when she got home and showered. Besides, she still had to clean up everything scattered on the new asphalt.

At least once she righted the trash can, she could see what she was doing. She did peer inside carefully, just in case. No beady little eyes looked up at her, thank goodness—just smelly, slimy trash. Finally, she had everything cleaned up and the lid securely in place.

After closing the diner’s back door, she headed to her car. As she walked across the parking lot, she swore she could feel eyes staring at her. Beady little eyes giving her the stink eye. “Sorry, no free meals,” she called into the night, laughing. “I’m tougher than I look, you know. I’ve got three older brothers.”

Climbing into her car, she flipped on the headlights, and the beam found a small furry form at the edge of the lot, near the creek that meandered past the property. A fat raccoon glared at her.

Tara laughed. She was exhausted. And punchy. And dirty. But she’d survived. Tomorrow—she glanced at her watch—today was going to be a piece of cake.

* * *

MORGAN’S STOMACH RUMBLED as he hit the outskirts of Haskins Corners just after dawn. He needed to find a safe place to park, grab some grub and figure out his next move.

It was early. Nothing much was open. But a familiar, ancient diner came to mind.

The parking lot was big enough to park the truck now that he was bobtailing. This time of day there would be plenty of room, even if he’d had the trailer.

Except, this morning the parking lot was more than half-full. He pulled to a halt. What the heck? Dozens of cars filled the upper half of the lot, though there was still room in the lower.

What was going on? He’d never seen this much traffic here, even at breakfast time.

Slowly, he turned the rig into the lot, stopping at the outer edge along the creek side, underneath the trees. The silence of the air when he shut off the engine still amazed him. He climbed out and made his way across the newly paved parking lot. Nice. Smooth. There wasn’t even the hint of a pothole in sight.

And landscaping? Bushes and trees in the median? Daisy was moving up in the world. The now-elderly woman who’d run the joint since the 1970s must have come into some money.

Approaching the front door, however, Morgan paused. This couldn’t be Daisy’s domain any longer. A menu was posted in a fancy metal box on the wall. Different, but if the scents coming out of the kitchen were any indication, good. His stomach rumbled again in response.

Inside he froze. The layout of the place was the same, but run-down had given way to kitsch, and utilitarian to almost pretty. The clunky vinyl booths and Formica tables were gone. In their place sat tables and chairs that looked better suited for a dollhouse than a diner.

He wasn’t especially tall, but his years of bodybuilding workouts had made that type of furniture totally off-limits. He knew better than to sit on any of those chairs. He’d probably end up on his ass with splinters beneath his butt.

Morgan frowned. He was here and he was hungry. The perky little hostess was new, too. Since when did diners have hostesses?

“Just one?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Where exactly would she put him? He resisted the urge to retreat instead of following her. The lace curtains and tablecloths didn’t help with the feeling he had of stepping into a woman’s boudoir.

“I’ll just sit at the counter.” It was still there, still the same, but cleaner. Much cleaner. With a shrug, she dismissed him as easily as he did her.

“What can I get ya?” Another young woman with bright, albeit tired eyes and a name tag that read Wendy stood on the other side of the counter, a carafe of coffee in one hand.

“A whole lot of that.”

She poured a big mugful, then slid it toward him. “I hear ya.” She stifled a yawn. “Here’s our brand-spanking new menu.” She pulled a laminated folder from between the napkin holder and saltshaker. “Take a look at it, and I’ll be right back.” She hustled away, the coffeepot landing smoothly on the burner as he opened the menu.

Omelets? He’d made the mistake once of ordering an omelet from Daisy. He should have known to change the order when she’d said, “A what?” Her omelet had consisted of scrambled eggs with bits of meat mixed in.

Now there was a full page of them. Egg whites? Mushrooms? Holy cow. This was different. His mouth watered.

* * *

BREAKFAST WAS TARA’S favorite meal of the day. The warm, rich, sweet scents of baking, hot grease and coffee were a unique perfume. Nothing better in the world. That was part of why she’d decided to offer the breakfast menu all day long. That, and competing with the big boys—she had to play their games.

The kitchen was full of aromatic food, pots, pans and noise. Tara tried to shut it all out and focus. Robbie was her lead chef for mornings. But while he was the best at what he did, he was also the most easily distracted. And the past few days had been full of distractions.

She’d decided to do a soft opening the week before the official grand opening. This was their first day and the place was over half-full. First impressions were vital and so far so good.

She had to trust Robbie and Wendy and everyone else she’d hired. She had to. It was now or never.

Already a couple dozen people had come in this morning, and she was busy whipping up another batch of biscuits. Mom’s recipe was a favorite, and Tara had to remind herself that she couldn’t eat the profits. But oh, she loved Mom’s biscuits.

“Oh, my.” Wendy rushed through the door, her arms full of dirty dishes. She wound her way through the controlled mess and deposited everything in the sink.

“Oh, my, what?” Gabe, the busboy/dishwasher said as he lifted the sprayer and proceeded to blast off what food residue he could from the plates.

“Hunk alert,” Wendy called out in a pseudo-whisper.

Tara wasn’t sure when the staff had started this ridiculous behavior. Whenever a good-looking guy came in, one of the waitresses would make this announcement. She knew she should stop it, but with a brand-new staff, she was going to allow anything that helped them become a cohesive team.

Besides, the guys had come up with their own balance. Bombshell was the term her evening cook, Wade, had used. The gray-haired cook wasn’t interested in the modern vernacular, much to the younger guys’ displeasure. He reasoned that they needed an education. Still, the term had stuck.

And so the descriptions of customers flew around the kitchen. Tara focused on the biscuits.

“You really should see this guy.” Wendy passed Tara and whispered in her ear, “He’s perfect for you.”

Not only was her staff getting involved in the life of the diner, they’d started to make their feelings known about her life—specifically, her lack of a love life. It didn’t help that her brothers, DJ and Jason, had both gotten married and Wyatt and Emily had eloped in the past few months.

Her sister, Mandy, talked about dresses and bouquets every time she came in with little Lucas for lunch. Love was in the air everywhere—and her staff thought she should join in.

“Not interested,” she said, focusing on the biscuit dough. “Told you that already.”

“This one might make you change your mind.” Wendy’s voice came out all singsongy as she wiggled her eyebrows. “You never know.” She’d filled a tray as she’d talked, then hefted the thing up on her shoulder.

“Just focus and don’t spill that.”

“Yes, boss.”

Wendy disappeared out into the dining room as Lindy, the hostess, came in. “You gotta see this guy,” Lindy said as she carried a stack of dishes to the sink. The girl was a ditz at times, but she knew when to chip in and help.

“You girls need cooling off.” Gabe lifted the water spray and sent a brief blast of water at Lindy, who squealed.

“All right.” Tara needed to stop them now. “Everyone get to work.” Her voice was soft, though, so while they stilled the horseplay, the glances and snickers continued.

Shoving the tray of biscuits into the oven, she stepped back and dusted off her hands. Her mouth watered at the sight of the previous batch she’d baked and, mentally promising her mom, “just one,” she reached out.

Suddenly, hands cupped her elbows, and she found her waitresses on either side of her. “Hey!”

“You’ll thank us later.” Wendy laughed.

The laughing trio had to angle awkwardly through the swinging doors, and the thump of the doors closing barely broke the din of the dining room. Nearly all the tables were full and even the counter had only a few empty stools.

Tara didn’t have to ask. The man at the counter, on the end. Blond, short-cropped hair. Broad, bodybuilder shoulders. And muscles. His arms were huge, stretching the fabric of his black T-shirt tight. She didn’t dare look in the direction of his faded blue jeans.

“See?” Wendy didn’t even bother to try to hide her pointing hand.

Tara stared. “Oh. My,” she whispered, then spun on her heel. She scurried into the kitchen before he could look up and see them all gawking at him.

Robbie looked through the order window. “What’s wrong with you?”

She stared at her cook, the only apparently sane person in her kitchen. There was no way she was telling him anything.

But that man... He was exactly what she’d normally be attracted to. He was the opposite of her brothers, so different from her normal reality.

Which was why she’d turned around. She’d made more than her fair share of bad choices in men. She did not have time for any kind of relationship right now. None whatsoever. Not even a wishful one.

Even if those arms could make any girl feel safe.

CHAPTER THREE

MORGAN STARED AT the menu, peering over it as two waitresses dragged a woman dressed in chef garb out of the kitchen. That was an interesting little display.

As soon as they let go of her arms, she turned through the diner doors, like the bird in the cuckoo clock his grandmother used to have.

Morgan smiled. He hadn’t thought about Gran in ages. She’d been the closest thing he and Jack had had to a real family. He missed her, wishing he could give Brooke someone special like that in her life.

The waitress who’d originally handed him the menu returned. “So, have you made up your mind?” The grin on her face said there had definitely been an inside joke involved with the chef coming through those swinging doors.

“Uh, yeah.” He ordered the Denver omelet, hoping it was as good as it sounded. He’d caught a whiff of several dishes that passed by and was already salivating.

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, leave the chef in the kitchen to cook it, okay?” He winked at her, and she had the grace to blush even as she laughed.

“I think we can arrange that. Tara isn’t fond of coming out of her cave anyway.”

“Tara?”

“Yeah, the owner. And chef.” She nodded at the dining room behind him. “She bought this place and has been pushing us for a month to open this week.”

He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Just this week?” He was impressed. For a brand-new place, it was pretty busy. “Hopefully, nothing happened to Daisy.” He recalled the elderly woman who’d previously run the old diner.

“Nope. She’s alive and well.” Wendy refilled his cup. “Retirement will be good for her.”

He wondered if Daisy agreed with that. She’d always given him the impression she’d die before she’d retire.

“Let me put in your order.” The waitress stepped away and Morgan looked around again.

Even this early in the day, there was a crowd. He’d come here knowing Daisy had been a fixture in town her whole life. He’d hoped to ask if she’d seen Sylvie. Disappointment settled close. He wondered if there was any way to contact her.

It wasn’t long before his plate appeared, and the meal looked as good as it smelled. He glanced at the waitress. “Hey,” he said.

“Do you need something else?”

“No. Just a curious question. Who does the hiring here?”

“You looking for a job?” She looked hopeful, almost eager.

“Uh, no.” He laughed. “But I know someone who might.” Sylvie had been working as a waitress when they’d met. Did the fact that a new restaurant had appeared in town have anything to do with someone sighting her? Was she working here, maybe on another shift? He tried not to get his hopes up.

“That’d be Tara. Don’t know if we’re looking for anyone else, though.”

“If she has a minute, I’d like to chat with her.”

For the first time since she’d warmly greeted him, the girl looked reluctant. “I’ll see if she can break away.”

“No hurry.” He dug into the omelet and stifled a groan of pleasure. It tasted even better than it smelled or looked.

* * *

TARA KNEW HER staff meant well, but she needed to make them understand that she could not afford any distractions right now. Not with her track record. She busied herself putting the finishing touches on the lunch prep.

She’d nearly flunked out of high school because she’d thought boys were more important than homework. When Wyatt had caught her sneaking out of the house one night, it’d been the final straw. From then on, he’d made sure she didn’t go anywhere until her homework was done.

She’d resented him then, but now appreciated how hard that must have been for him. He’d been young and single, an older brother who took his responsibilities very seriously. Her behavior had probably put a serious cramp in his social life.

In college, she’d nearly screwed up again. She’d met Travis and thought he was “the one.” He’d been the one all right, the one for Cheryl and Lisa and Julie and who knew how many others. Looking back now, Tara wasn’t sure which had been worse—the distraction of the pursuit or the heartache afterward.

DJ had been the one to save her then, listening to all her wailing and tears, never once letting on that his baby sister was being a pain in the neck.

Even recently, she’d met that cute firefighter after the fire that had nearly destroyed the county. A hotshot on the crew that had come to town, he’d definitely turned her head. And turned right around and left as quickly as he’d come.

No, she didn’t have time to get involved with anyone. She couldn’t afford the distraction if she was going to make this place a success. And that man at the counter? Oh, yeah, he’d definitely be a distraction.

He already was, if her staff’s reaction to him was any indication.

“Hey, Tara.” Wendy came through the doors. “Our hunky customer wants to talk to you to see if we’re hiring.”

“What?” She whipped around, staring at Wendy, who nearly doubled over in laughter.

“I take it you wouldn’t want him working here?”

Dear Lord, that would be the end of her. “No. Certainly not.” Sweat broke out as she imagined the big man lumbering through the kitchen, brushing past her, easily lifting the heavy trays with those big, strong arms.

“Just tell him we’re not hiring.” She didn’t dare talk to him, not with those images swimming in her head.

“Sure you don’t want to take the time to visit?” Wendy moved close. “He’s even better looking up close. Nice green eyes.”

“Yeah, I’m sure his eyes are what you’re looking at.”

“Maybe.” Wendy headed toward the door. “Well, if you’re not going to take advantage, I’m certainly going to enjoy.”

“I’m too busy anyway. I’m off to the fair.” She tried to look nonchalant as she grabbed the bag of flyers and headed out. It wasn’t like she was running away or anything.

* * *

AFTER FINISHING HIS delicious breakfast, Morgan left to walk around town. He found himself looking at every person he passed with a suspicious eye. At every glimpse of purple, which was oddly frequent, he nearly gave himself whiplash trying to see if it was Brooke or Sylvie.

It never was.

He’d gone up and down the narrow main street three times. He was pushing his luck. He fought the urge to go into every store to question the staff. He had a faded picture, but from what little he’d gathered about Sylvie, she looked different than she used to.

Her blond hair was now dark, not brown or black, but blue apparently. Or it had been a couple months ago. He had no idea what color it was now.

She’d gotten tattoos and piercings, which, while they weren’t that odd these days, they weren’t something she’d had before. They disguised her, making her look nothing like the pictures he had of her. Would he even recognize her?

Was he ever going to find them?

He grabbed a soda from a street vendor and settled under a big cottonwood tree in the center of the park. Maybe if he sat here and watched he’d see something.

The sun moved slowly across the sky, and he fought the growing disappointment. Other than going door-to-door, what was he supposed to do? He glanced wistfully at the playground. Had Brooke ever played there? She’d always loved to swing.

If he hung out here, would he find her or just get himself arrested for stalking little kids? As a dad, he knew he’d be suspicious of some guy hanging out at a playground.

A woman came down the sidewalk, a big bag hanging off her shoulder, the sun glinting in her bright golden hair. The curls rippled in the breeze as she walked, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. She turned around, and for an instant, a flash of recognition shot through him. He didn’t know her, but she looked familiar. Where had he seen her before?

At the diner this morning. With her hair down, she looked different. She’d come and gone so quickly, he was surprised he recognized her now.

What had the waitress said her name was? Tina? No. Trudy? No, definitely not. Tara? That was it.

He watched her move. She went from booth to booth, looking at the items displayed, and, after she’d picked up something small and paid, she handed the clerk a piece of paper. A flyer? What was she doing? She moved easily through the crowd, passing out the flyers from her bag and sharing a smile with nearly everyone. Good advertising. He hoped it worked.

Just then, she looked at him. Their gazes met, held for an instant, then she looked away. Did she recognize him, too?

Something about the woman intrigued him. Rising, he followed her, her interactions amusing him. How long had the waitress said the restaurant had been open? A week? Before opening, had Tara been doing this? If she’d been running around glad-handing for the past month, especially during the busy weekends, had she seen Sylvie? Had she seen Brooke? His heart sped up, and so did he.

* * *

EVERY DAY, ESPECIALLY on the busy weekends and hopefully between the morning rush and lunch—before the day grew too unbearably hot—Tara planned to visit the street fair that was a staple in town.

Tara loved the fair and could easily spend the entire day shopping, as she had in years past with her sisters. Artists, jewelers, seamstresses and food vendors of all kinds sold their goods. But her purpose now was to advertise the café, not spend her meager profits.

She’d printed flyers with coupons and handed them out to the vendors and anyone who’d take one. It was working—already her staff said people had brought the flyers in.

Today was no different, and she made her way down the street, taking her time and doing a little shopping along the way.

She noticed that the hunk from the diner this morning was sitting under the cottonwoods in the park. Those broad shoulders made the massive trunk of the old tree actually look small. One leg stretched out across the grass, and he’d bent one knee to rest his forearm on. The soda can looked minuscule in his big hand.

He looked up then, catching her watching him. She glanced away, feeling her cheeks warm. She moved on to the next stall.

Visitors and locals mingled in the square, and it was the perfect place to spread the word about her café. She’d actually toyed with the idea of renting one of the outdoor booths to give away food samples.

But she couldn’t afford to be away from the café for the entire day, and neither could any of the staff. Not yet anyway.

Maybe she should give Mr. Hunk a coupon to get him to return. That would make her staff—especially Wendy—happy. And that was the only reason it crossed her mind, she told herself.

Really.

Glancing over at the trees, she realized he’d left and before she could stop herself, she scanned around, wondering where he’d gone. She didn’t see him. Why did that realization dim the bright day? Shaking her head, she dismissed the man and her silly thoughts.

“Hey, Dave,” she greeted the older man who made beautiful tin sculptures. She’d already commissioned one of a squirrel in a chef hat to go in the entry of the diner. “How’s Mr. Squirrel coming?”

“Looking good. I’ll be done early, I think.”

“Great.” He’d already sent business her way, and she left another stack of flyers.

With similar interactions, she moved along the line, realizing how many of these people she’d come to know and now considered friends.

Halfway down the block, she stopped at the T-shirt vendor and recalled the woman who’d come in to apply for a waitress job, the one who’d insulted her, unintentionally, but the woman’s rudeness still stuck in Tara’s mind. Relieved the woman wasn’t there, she was glad to find a man behind the wide table.

She didn’t remember seeing him before. Was folding something people who sold T-shirts did in their sleep? They always seemed to be doing it.

“Hello,” she greeted him with a smile. He looked up, but rather than smiling, he frowned, then seemed to force his lips into a stiff grin.

“Hi!” She tried again. He kept folding.

“Let me know if there’s anything you’d like me to ring up.” He moved to sit in a chair beside an ancient cash register. He picked up a magazine and focused on it, ignoring her.

“I’d like to introduce myself,” she said. He looked up and fake-smiled again.

“Yeah, I know who you are. You bought the diner from Daisy.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I ain’t giving out any of yer flyers,” he grumbled. “It’s hard enough makin’ a livin’ doing my own business.” He went back to his magazine. “You wanna buy something?”

She stared at him, surprised. Not now, she didn’t. Everyone else was very open and helpful, friendly. What was wrong with this guy?

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She wasn’t giving up. “I’m offering a discount. If nothing else, you and your family might enjoy coming by for a meal.” Did she really say that without gritting her teeth? She was fairly impressed with herself.

“No, thanks.”

“You haven’t even tried.”

“Lady makes a mean omelet,” another voice said beside her, and Tara turned to see The Hunk standing there, pawing at T-shirts. He wasn’t even looking at the T-shirts he was unfolding. He was looking at her instead. And smiling. Another T-shirt returned to the pile, rumpled and unviewed.

“You want to buy something?” The man behind the counter looked up from the magazine only long enough to glare at the growing pile of messy shirts.

“Not sure yet.” Hunk continued to smile, his expression more mischief than mirth. “I’ll let you know.”

She couldn’t ignore him. He’d complimented her, for one thing. “Glad you enjoyed your meal. I hope you’ll return.”

“Plan to.” He faced her, leaving the T-shirts for the other man to refold. “I’m Morgan Thane.” He stuck out a hand, a beefy hand that matched the rest of him, muscular, strong and intimidating. A total contradiction to the smile on his face and the curiosity in his eyes. “My truck is parked in your back lot. Hope that’s okay.”

She took a step away, reluctant to touch him. “Tara Hawkins.” She didn’t want to be rude, so she finally took his hand, feeling her fingers engulfed but thankfully not crushed. His palm was rough and warm.

Wendy was right. His eyes were green—a deep, dark green. Like the underside of those cottonwood leaves he’d been sitting beneath. This is ridiculous. Tara forced herself to slip her hand from his. “You’re welcome to park there, yes. Daisy said lots of truckers come by. Are...are you here job hunting, Mr. Thane?” That didn’t make sense, unless he was tired of driving truck. “Or just here to mess up the displays?”

“Uh—no?” He looked puzzled, then glanced at the piles of T-shirts and laughed. “I’m just keeping him on his toes.” His expression faded and grew distant. “You ignore a business and it’ll fail. Miserably.” He tilted his head toward the man still focused on his magazine instead of them. “I see it as doing him a favor.”

“Uh-huh.” Somehow that didn’t totally ring true, though it did make sense. “My waitress said you were asking about hiring.” Yes. Keep this on a business level.

His eyes widened and he stepped closer. “Oh, yeah. No, I’m actually, uh, looking for a friend.” Even in the middle of the day’s heat, his body’s warmth reached out to her.

“Does your friend have experience as a cook or a waitress?” She might not need anyone now, but she knew turnover would be an issue. It always was in the food industry.

He stared at her, and Tara struggled to keep from falling under the spell of those eyes.

“Actually, yeah. I was wondering if she’d already applied.”

Why did he look around then, as if someone might be watching them? Something seemed off, and she frowned.

A group of girls came over to the table then and the distracted clerk hurried over, busying himself refolding the shirts Morgan had messed up.

Morgan looked at the man and gently grabbed Tara’s elbow to guide her away from the table. She barely resisted the urge to pull her arm from his grasp, but before she could, he let her go.

“Did anyone named Sylvie come in and apply?”

Surprised, Tara stared at him. “Uh, yes. Why?” She was a friend of his? What kind of friend? She mentally rolled her eyes. What business of hers was it? What did it matter? But somehow it did.

“When?” The urgency in his voice startled her. He looked ready to pounce. “When did you last see her?” His words came out in a rush.

“It’s been almost a month ago. That was the only time I’ve ever seen her. I don’t know her.” She wasn’t really someone Tara could see herself being friends with, that’s for sure.

His expression fell, and she saw the disappointment cover his face. “Damn.”

“What’s going on?”

He paced, running his fingers over his close-cropped hair, as if forgetting he didn’t have long hair to shove them through. She watched that big hand, fascinated.

“I’ve been looking for her for some time and every time I get close, I miss her.”

“What do you mean, miss her?”

“Hey, do you work here?” One of the girls who had been looking at the T-shirts came over to them.

“Uh, no.” Tara frowned, looking around for the man who’d been behind the table. “He was here a minute ago.”

“There isn’t anyone.” The girl actually pouted. “Darn, I wanted this one.” She held up a black T-shirt with a ghastly skeleton on it. Maybe it was a blessing the man wasn’t here.

“Morgan did you see...?” She turned to find Morgan gone. In the distance, just this side of the park, she saw him jogging down an alley that led away from the street fair. The T-shirt salesman was a short distance ahead of him, hurrying away.

CHAPTER FOUR

MORGAN’S CURSES FILLED the air. Where the hell had the guy gone? As he’d talked to Tara, he’d watched the vendor behind her react. Something—recognition or realization—had dawned on the man’s face. Looking up the side street now, Morgan didn’t see a trace of him.

Half a dozen people came and went around him. A couple women stood on the corner, chatting in the sunlight. A boy played in the dirt with one of those yellow toy trucks Morgan had wished for as a kid.

But no shaggy-haired T-shirt vendor in sight. Morgan walked for a couple blocks, looking down alleys and casually glancing into whatever window he could without turning into a Peeping Tom. Nothing. Nowhere. It was as if the guy had vanished into thin air.

Finally, resigned, Morgan headed to the street fair. If nothing else, the guy had to come back and get his merchandise. But when Morgan returned to the booth, an older, worn-out-looking woman was there. He tried to question her, but she was too busy to talk.

“You wanna buy a shirt? I got customers.” She held up one of the rumpled garments. To any other questions, she just shook her head, focusing on the seemingly endless line of customers.

“Then tell me where the man went. Your partner?”

“I don’t keep track of no one but me.” She turned to a couple women on the other side of the booth. With a sigh, Morgan settled under the oak to wait, though he wasn’t really sure what he was waiting for.

Sitting there in the mottled sunlight, with nothing to do but think, Morgan wondered why he was even here. Was he just wasting his time? No. This was the best lead he had, and he couldn’t walk away. The idea of leaving wasn’t even an option. He had to find Sylvie and Brooke.

He had no choice.

As he watched people moving around the spacious park and shopping at the varied booths, it was with a calculated eye. He was studying. Looking—but not hoping. He never let himself go there.

He’d given up on hope a long time ago. Losing it was too painful. But where else could he look? Who else should he talk to? He thought about calling Jack, but he was tired of calling his brother with no news. Tired of failing.

Tara Hawkins must have gone to the diner. Despite himself, he looked around for her. Damn it. He didn’t see her anywhere. Maybe she’d know more. Should he go back there?

Turning toward the T-shirt stand, he forced himself to focus. This was his mission—Brooke was his responsibility.

Throughout the rest of the day, the woman at the booth did a brisk business. Nothing unusual. Just busy. She cast Morgan several furtive glances, which made him more determined to stay put. The man didn’t return.

Finally, as the sun set low, the woman pulled boxes from under the table and packed the remaining stock. No one came to help, and she glared at Morgan.

If he didn’t want to have an up-close-and-personal meeting with the sheriff, he knew he had to be careful about how he approached her.

When she taped the last box closed, Morgan moved closer for one last try. He didn’t say anything at first, simply stood, watching, trying not to intimidate her too much. She, on the other hand, had no hesitancy in glaring at him.

Slowly, deliberately, Morgan pulled out his wallet. Not to get money, but to slip out the familiar, worn picture. He hesitated. Was this a good idea? He had no clue, but he didn’t know what else to do. Praying he was making the right choice, Morgan put the picture on top of the last box. “She’s mine,” he whispered around the lump in his throat. “She’s a year older than that picture.”

The woman paused and looked at Brooke’s grin. Recognition flashed in her eyes an instant before she shut the reaction down.

“Yeah?” She hefted a box onto a metal dolly. “Cute kid.”

“She is. I haven’t seen her in a year.”

The silence hung thick in the twilight. “Whatcha want me to do ’bout it?” The woman moved another box, more slowly this time.

“Have you seen her?”

“Maybe.” Another box moved. It barely fit on the dolly, but she put it there anyway. It’d be awkward as heck to move, but he doubted that would stop her. And it didn’t.

“Can I help you with that?” He reached for the handle and the woman lifted an elbow to push him away.

“I got it. Thanks.” She stepped behind the dolly, shoving her foot against the bottom rail and tilting it. She grunted briefly as the big box fell onto the rail and her shoulder.

“Do you know her?” Morgan asked.

The woman met his gaze, and the sadness in her eyes surprised him. “Don’t know her. I seen her, I think, but lots of people come through here.” She tilted her head toward the now-empty booth.

“If you see her again, would you let me know?” He tried to tamp down the emotion flaring annoyingly to life in his chest. He pulled a business card out of his wallet and put it on top of the boxes as he retrieved the precious photo.

“Maybe.” She took a couple of steps, struggling with the weight.

Midway through the gate to a dirt parking lot, she stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. She reached out awkwardly over the carefully balanced boxes and picked up the business card. She stared at it in the fading light. Morgan half expected her to toss it to the wind.

Instead, she slipped it into her back pocket, and he finally remembered to breathe. He stood there, watching her load her car, then climb in. Before she turned the corner, he snapped a quick photo of the license plate and car with his phone.

She hadn’t done anything wrong—that he knew of—but the information might be useful. If not now, maybe later. Who knew what a private detective could do with something like that? If television was to be believed, a lot.

Slowly, Morgan walked toward his truck. The streets were empty now, a few vendors still packing up, but no customers left.

Streetlights had come on and squares of gold fell out of the glass windows of houses he passed. He saw families sitting down to dinner. Couples in homey kitchens putting meals together. Something shifted in his chest. Envy. Longing.

If he walked these streets, glancing in windows, would he find Sylvie? Not likely. Sylvie had tried to cook a few times, and she’d been getting better, but she’d never liked it. There wouldn’t be any homey warm scene to watch. Or any chance to find them that way.

Loneliness settled in close, and he shivered to push it away. He didn’t have time to feel. He had too much to do. He headed toward the diner, telling himself it was only because that’s where his truck was parked.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Tara would be serving up warmth.

And maybe a little bit of belonging.

* * *

DESPITE THE HEAVY RAIN, the Saturday morning rush was in full swing. Tara stood on tiptoe to peer out the round window in the doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Nearly all the tables were full and her staff hustled back and forth.

She couldn’t help smiling. Just then, a customer gave Wendy one of the coupon flyers. Yes. Her work was paying off. She glanced around, hoping to see more.

Her gaze found the French doors to the patio where raindrops hit, then slid down the panes. The street fair would be hurt by the rain, but some of today’s crowd was likely due to the weather.

She wasn’t about to complain.

Then she glanced at the long counter and froze. Morgan sat at the far end. A newspaper was spread out in front of him as he absently sipped from a mug and read.

She should be surprised he was here after his abrupt departure from the park the other day. But she wasn’t. Not really. Briefly, she wondered what had happened at the fair. Not that he owed her an explanation, but she couldn’t help being curious about where the two men had gone.

For a brief instant, she watched him. Any moment, one of the waitstaff would come through the doors, but until then, she didn’t move. He really was something.

Most of the men in her life were like her brothers. Tall, rangy cowboys. Muscular, yes, but not like this. Their physique came from working with the cattle and riding horses; Morgan’s seemed more deliberate. More defined. Purposeful.

He had to work out. Suddenly, an image of him, sweat glistening on the hard curves of his bare chest, his arms straining as he lifted a bar with black weights on each end, leaped to mind. If her arms hadn’t been full of fresh linens, she’d have reached up to fan herself.

Forcing herself to stop this nonsense and get back to work, she stepped out of the kitchen, hugging the linens tight. She took her time putting them away in the antique wooden cabinet nestled in the corner.

She did not have time for this. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Men—good-looking men—were a distraction she couldn’t afford right now.

Once the linens were settled, she headed to the cash register and pulled out the day’s receipts to prep the deposit. Robbie was here handling the kitchen, so she had a couple hours to get paperwork done.

“Mornin’, Morgan. Can I get you a warm-up?” Wendy’s voice, friendly, inviting and warm, came across the dining room, and Tara looked up again. A twinge of jealousy surprised her. The waitress stood across the counter from the burly truck driver, holding the carafe.

He didn’t respond at first and Tara paused, just as Wendy did, waiting.

“You okay?” Wendy touched his arm, giving him a tiny shake. “Morgan?”

He shook his head. “Guess I’m tired.” He rubbed his eyes. “I need to get some shut-eye.” Then he smiled. His eyes sparkled and a tiny dimple grew in his left cheek. Tara stared, frozen by the sight of him. What would it feel like to have that smile aimed at her?

Wendy repeated her offer.

“No, thanks.” Morgan set down the cup. “I’ve gotta run. Good breakfast. Thanks.” He nodded, tossing the folded newspaper onto the counter for someone else to read. A ball cap sat at his elbow. He settled it over his close-cropped hair, the wide brim hiding his eyes from Tara’s view and shadowing the rest of his face.

Before turning to leave, he flipped a couple bills on the counter, then stood and shoved his wallet into the back pocket of a worn pair of jeans. Her gaze followed.

Tara watched every move. Moments ticked by until she realized she was staring openly at his backside. Shaking her head, she forced herself to look away. Focus on something—anything—else.

“See you tomorrow?” the waitress asked hopefully, her gaze darting meaningfully to Tara.

Tara tore her gaze away from them, forcing herself to focus on the deposits. And to try to control her breathing. It should be against the law for a man to wear a T-shirt that fit so well. Wasn’t there some kind of ordinance?

“Maybe. Depends on my load.” His voice dipped low. How the hell did he make it reach deep inside her?

He looked up then, his gaze reaching out beyond the shadowed hat brim and finding hers. Tara stared back, knowing she should look away, but unable to do so.

Her breath caught, and she tried to release it.

Then he was gone, the glass door closing quietly in his wake.

“Wonder why he’s in such a toot?” Wendy asked, sidling up to Tara, as if she knew more than she was saying.

Tara shrugged, forcing her face not to show her own curiosity. Wendy didn’t need any more encouragement.

“He doesn’t owe us any explanations.” Tara cringed at the breathy sound of her own voice.

“Maybe not you.” Wendy grinned. “I need to know.”

“Why is that, exactly?”

“I’m determined to fix him up with you. It won’t work if he’s not here.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Tara turned away, her hands full of receipts, her cheeks warm for a reason she refused to identify. “Don’t start that. We’ve been over this. I’m not interested.” She headed into the kitchen.

Wendy followed her. “Your words say that, but I saw the way you looked at him.”

“You’re imagining things.” Tara shoved open the office door with her hip, hoping Morgan hadn’t seen her gawking at him. Which she hadn’t been doing. Not really. It was her job, after all, to keep an eye on things. “We’ve got work to do.” She set the papers on the desk, ignoring the raised eyebrow from her waitress.

Thankfully, Wendy took the hint—this time—and went back to work.

It was easy to decide to focus on work, but while her hands separated the receipts into neat little stacks, Tara’s mind wasn’t as easily distracted. Where was he going? What was he doing here? She’d noticed on her walk back from the street fair that his truck didn’t have a logo that told her where he was based. That wasn’t unusual. Lots of the truckers who came in were independents. But none of them came in more than a day at a time.

Truckers didn’t stay in one place for long, always on the way to or from someplace else. He’d been here the last couple days and spent time at the street fair. Why was he sticking around?

“You’re thinking about him,” Wendy said softly from the doorway.

Besides being startled, Tara was irritated with her employee. “Cut it out. And stop pushing me at him. I’m. Not. Interested.”

Not sure who she was trying to convince more, she booted up the computer and stared at the spreadsheet. That would surely keep her busy for the next hour or more. She had to do something.

The loud crash in the alley sent both of them rushing to the back door.

“Ricky’s back,” Wendy said unnecessarily. The staff had christened the pesky raccoon, and the name had stuck.

“In the middle of the day?” She and Wendy stepped into the alley. Raccoons were nocturnal animals. “Not likely.”

“Then what?”

“Meoooooww!” A big gray tomcat, its fur matted, dirty and soaking wet, sat on the top of the brand-new, tipped-over trash can, pawing on the—thankfully—still-latched lid.

This was not happening again. What was with all these animals?

Tara rubbed her forehead. At this rate, she was never going to get the bills paid.

* * *

MORGAN LEFT THE diner before he ended up staying there all day. He couldn’t. It would be a mistake.

He walked slowly through the rain, across the worn flagstones of Tara’s patio. Even though he knew the stones had been there since well before Tara had bought this place, he thought of them as hers.

Today they were washed clean by the raindrops, but a year ago? An article in this morning’s paper had commemorated the wildfire that had raged through this valley last year.

He remembered hearing about the damage and the efforts that had gone into helping the people who’d lost so much. Some of his crew had trucked in loads of relief supplies. He’d been too distracted with his own loss to be any good to anyone.

Had these stones been blackened with smoke and ash? Had they escaped damage simply because they were stone that couldn’t burn?

Looking up at the rooflines of the buildings along the street, he realized they were old, as well, so perhaps the fire hadn’t touched this area.

A year. So much had changed in that year. The fire. Tara buying this place. Sylvie stealing Brooke away. The knot in his chest that never seemed to go away grew just a little bit tighter.

Time had dulled the pain, but nothing would erase it, not until he found Brooke.

Brooke.

She’d had another birthday since he’d last seen her. Surely last year’s gift, the purple dragon, was worn out by now. He’d bought her another gift, which was nestled in the lower cabinet in his truck. He carried it everywhere, just in case he found her.

So close. He was so close. He could feel it. The jerk at the street fair yesterday had led Morgan on a merry chase through town. Twice he’d thought the guy was going to stop and lead him to Sylvie or Brooke. Instead, it had been nothing more than a wild-goose chase.

Cold rain slipped down the back of his collar, reminding him that he didn’t have time to slide down this rabbit hole. Morgan glanced at his watch. He had a phone conference with Jack in an hour. He might be on the road, but he needed to do what he could to help the business, if nothing else to make sure he still had a livelihood to return to once he found Brooke. He needed to get to the truck, get online and work.

As he hustled across the parking lot, Morgan thought about his brother doing the majority of the office work. Morgan tried to step up and do his own work when he could, but his mind was elsewhere.

In this weather, there wouldn’t be many people out anyway. Even Sylvie was smart enough to get in out of the rain. He glanced down the street toward the park. At least, he hoped so. The idea of Brooke out in this made him shiver.

Maybe the woman from the T-shirt booth would call him today. He’d gladly stop by the booth again, but what good would that do? Frustration made him edgy. He kept walking to burn off energy.

He could go back and talk to Tara. Maybe she had more info about Sylvie from her application? An address maybe? But then she’d wonder why he needed it. Friends kept in contact.

He wasn’t going to explain to anyone here about Sylvie. He couldn’t risk it. He’d trusted before and been betrayed when they’d tipped Sylvie off. She’d run, and he’d had to start his search all over. He wasn’t sure he could go through that again.

He certainly couldn’t afford to.

Inside the cab, Morgan booted up his laptop and used the diner’s Wi-Fi to get online. He had nearly a hundred emails to get through; instead, he did a quick search that resulted in nothing. Who was that guy at the T-shirt stand? There was something there. He just didn’t know what it was.

Rubbing his eyes in tired frustration, Morgan sat back on the bunk, pulling the laptop with him.

The article about last year’s fire still stuck in his mind. Curious, he did another search. The Someday Café had a fairly good internet presence. The pretty owner, Tara, had paid decent money for the website. Hmm...they had takeout. He’d have to remember that.

Might be safer than sitting at that counter watching her move around...

There were promo photos of the diner, one of her in full chef regalia. She smiled at the camera, stirring a big pot in an obviously posed photo. A pretty picture.

Who was she? Really?

She hadn’t grown up in Haskins Corners, but a good chunk of the inhabitants knew her. He stumbled across an article from a small, regional culinary magazine. It referred to the fire and talked about how the volunteers had created meals for the fire crews in a school kitchen.

There, in the middle of the group, laughing in pure abandon was Tara Hawkins. She wasn’t dressed to cook, but in shorts and a tank top that left her arms and legs bare. Tanned and bare.

He liked the way she looked in this picture. At the diner, she’d looked pretty but stressed. In this picture, her hair hung loose and wavy past her shoulders. Not pulled tight against her scalp.

Reading on, he found her connection to this community. Her brother owned a ranch nearby. Had it been damaged in the fire? That wasn’t the focus of the article, so Morgan didn’t learn any more. If nothing else, it made him more curious about her.

His phone rang then, and after saving the picture to his hard drive, he answered.

“Any luck?” Jack didn’t bother with the niceties.

Neither did Morgan as he explained yesterday’s events. “Nothing great. I did find a place where she applied for a job. They didn’t hire her.”

“Damn. That would’ve made life easier.”

“Yeah.”

“What next?”

“I’m going to stick around for a couple days. But I gotta look like I’m here for a reason. Anything local I can do?” If he could do short hauls in the area, maybe that would buy him more time.

“I can see. I’ll call if I find anything.” The sound of rustling papers came through the line. “Anyplace else she might have applied for a job?”

“There’s not much here. Retail. The diner. That’s about all she’s qualified for.” He tried to envision the small town in his mind. “Maybe a couple of bars.”

“Check ’em out.” Jack’s voice was tinny all of a sudden.

“Did you put me on speaker?” Morgan hated not knowing who could hear him.

“Yeah.” Jack laughed. “One-handed typing sucks, so get over it, bro. I need your help with these numbers.”

For the next few hours, they worked on financials and tried to figure out budgets for the next six months. The places Morgan was going to check would be open well into the night, so he could afford to give Jack the time.

The rain was relenting and letting the clouds temporarily part when he finally stumbled out of the cab. He needed to find something to eat before he continued his search. Morgan thought about going to the diner, but besides the distraction it would prove, he did need to look elsewhere. While the sidewalks in this town practically rolled up at night, there were a couple bars.

Sylvie had been a party girl when they’d met, and settling down hadn’t agreed with her. Was she back to her old habits?

He’d just rounded the corner when the wind picked up and raindrops fell again. With a muttered curse, Morgan turned up his collar as he headed toward the flashing neon lights.

Suddenly, something—someone—plowed into him. He found his arms full of soft, damp, sweet-smelling woman.

CHAPTER FIVE

TARA GASPED, STRUGGLING not to drop everything in her arms. No such luck, as her purse and groceries tumbled to the ground. She didn’t suffer a similar fate only because Morgan caught her.

Morgan.

“You okay?” His voice was deep, his arms warm, solid bands through her jacket. His breath brushed her cheek and she wasn’t sure how long his gaze held hers.

“Uh, yeah.” She hastily pulled away once her brain kicked into gear. Cold replaced the warmth of his arms. Trying not to look at him or think about how close they were, she bent to gather her groceries. They’d scattered clear across the wet sidewalk. One of the plastic bags had torn.

“Let me help.” Morgan crouched beside her, and Tara couldn’t help noticing his thick, muscular thighs right there in front of her—or the enticing curve of his biceps as he easily took on the weight of the canned goods. What items she could grab, she shoved into the remaining bag before facing him again.

His arms were full of her groceries. And he was smiling at her. Damn. She’d wondered earlier what that smile would do to her. Now she knew. Her stomach did one of those annoying little backflips. Karma was a bitch. Hastily, she reached for the last few items and shot to her feet, berating herself for letting him distract her. She’d sworn she wouldn’t let that happen again.

When she’d bought the diner, she’d also found a sweet little apartment within walking distance of both work and downtown. What she hadn’t taken into consideration tonight—besides slamming into a solid, brick wall of a man coming around a corner—was weather. The fact that it had been raining on and off all day had made the trek long and cold. And wet. Very wet.

She knew her hair was plastered to her head, and she was sure she looked like a drowned rat. Maybe the late-day shadows would disguise her at least a little. Self-conscious, she tried to deflect the focus away from herself. “I—I thought you’d be leaving town.”

“Still working on that. Good thing, too. Looks like you need my help.” He winked.

He seemed entirely too happy about that fact. She scowled and fought the answering smile. “I can take—” Glancing down, she realized she couldn’t take any of it. The other bag was ripped beyond salvaging, and she only had two arms. Surely, there was a way to stack it, cram everything into the one bag.

“Where you headed?” he asked, settling the canned goods more solidly in his arms.

“Home.”

“Point me in the right direction.” He was still smiling. “I’ll help.”

Tara shivered, as much from the cold of the rain as the realization that she had no choice but to show this veritable stranger her home. Either that or leave her groceries sitting here on the curb.

“Come on.” She headed toward her apartment building, knowing that at least some of her neighbors were home. Mrs. Walton across the hall was always home. If Tara screamed, someone would hear her. But would they do anything?

She mentally rolled her eyes. She was being ridiculous.

Morgan walked beside her, his height and bulk blocking some of the rain, and Tara gave up resisting the urge to look at him. He was as soaked as she was, but why didn’t he look like a drowned rat? If anything, he looked better all wet.

His jeans drew her gaze. The damp denim plastered to the hard contours of his leg muscles. Definitely a bodybuilder, he had a grace most hulking guys didn’t. The T-shirt he wore was a dark color, so the damp didn’t look as obvious, except to make the definition of those muscles clear. Six-pack abs. Pecs that were solidly defined and wide shoulders that flexed with the flow of muscle, broad and strong.

Tara doubted she could circle those biceps with both hands... The idea of touching him so intimately sent a flush from her head to her toes and back again.

Thankfully, they reached their destination, and she hurried to the protection of the porch. The rain intensified, and she dodged the cold drops falling down her neck. The patter of the raindrops on the veranda’s roof seemed loud and insistent.

“Nice place.” He looked around with interest when he joined her. “How many apartments?”

“Six,” she explained as she opened the door of what had once been a great Victorian house. Much of the grandeur still clung to the facade, but the inviting hominess of the place had long faded. “I’m upstairs.”

Stepping inside the foyer, she gulped as his size overwhelmed the tiny space. His broad shoulders nearly brushed the sides of the narrow doorway.

Once the door was closed and the patter of the falling rain muffled, silence pressed in on her, making her question again the sanity of bringing him to her home.

“If you’d feel better, I’ll just leave these things here. They should be safe enough. You can come back and get them.”

She stared. “How did you know?”

“That you’re nervous about bringing me here?” Morgan laughed, but it wasn’t a teasing laugh or a laugh that mocked her. It was almost self-deprecating. “You’re not stupid, Tara. You should be cautious. I appreciate that.”

Carefully, he stacked the cans on the small side table by the metal mailboxes in the wall. He’d wrapped a couple pasta boxes in the torn plastic bag, and, pulling them out now, he examined them to make sure they were dry. One looked the worse for the wear. “Sorry about that.”

He turned to go, nodding at her as his hand curled around the old-fashioned door handle. “I’ll be on my way.”

He’d almost reached the other side of the porch before she broke out of her stupor and called after him. “Wait!”

Morgan looked over his shoulder at her.

He stood on the edge of the rain, the streetlight’s bright glow falling over him the same way the raindrops did. So close. He was so close. Body-heat-sharing distance. Tasting the scent of him, she almost sighed at the rawness of him mingling with the damp night. She didn’t want him to leave. There was so much more to him, and she was intrigued.

“The least I can do to thank you is let you dry off.” This was ridiculous. She’d never been paranoid, never been inhospitable before. Why start now?

He turned around fully.

“I really do appreciate your help,” she added.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly, though the depth of his voice echoed around the empty foyer.

“Come on.” Reaching into her pocket, Tara pulled out her keys, then headed up the stairs.

* * *

MORGAN FOLLOWED TARA through the front door of the big, old house. He could see where it had been a grand place in its day, but where the foyer would have opened to several rooms, it was now a lobby of sorts, closed off and small. A door to the right had a brass A on it. B was across the hall, and straight ahead beyond the stairway was a door with C sitting a bit sideways.

A curved set of stairs led up, the carved handrail and delicate spindles showing definite signs of wear. As she stepped on the runner that ran up the center, each stair gave off a deep groan. He didn’t hesitate to grab the groceries he’d just set down and followed her.

Three more doors branched off the upper landing. She stuck a key in the door straight ahead. Apartment E. It opened soundlessly, and she led him inside. She tossed her purse on a small table and shucked her jacket, putting it on an old-fashioned coat tree a few inches beyond.

Fading daylight and the streetlight’s glow flooded the room through a turret-shaped alcove on the opposite wall. It looked inviting, and he took several steps before realizing he’d moved. He stood in the center of the room where he could easily turn and see everything. A small kitchen. The main room. Two wooden doors, both ajar. A bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a bedroom beyond. His gaze clung to that shadowed view. Rumpled bed, covers tossed up but not made.

Tara frowned but didn’t argue or try to stop his perusal. “Just put those on the kitchen table,” she directed, and he stepped into what seemed like a simple kitchen. Not what he expected in the home of a chef.

He continued to look around with growing interest. The pale green wall color and white subway tile fit her, though the regular stove and small counters did not.

He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t think he made any noise, but she turned her head. Their gazes met and held. Her eyes were pale blue, a color that fit with the light tone of her blond hair. Wisps fluttered in the air that wafted from the heat vent.

The image he’d seen of her on his computer where she’d been wearing the tank top and shorts flashed in his mind, reminding him that beneath that damp sweater were sweet curves and pretty, smooth skin.

Look somewhere else. He yanked his gaze to the surroundings, forcing his mind to think mundane thoughts.

This place told him more than he’d expected. He felt welcome here. She was relaxed and made her way around the kitchen table with ease.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked as she put the groceries away.

“Nah, I’m good.” Morgan shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching out. He’d always learned by touching and feeling, not just looking. And this place was filled with things he was sorely tempted to pick up and feel, experience. Including her.

“Well, I’m cold.” She rubbed her arms, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her movements. “I’m making some coffee.” Her smile reached out to him. “I’ll share.”

Stretching, she opened some upper cabinets and pulled out a canister. He stood there staring like a fool when her shirt rode up, just a little, to expose her sweet, flat abdomen. He tore his gaze away from her again. The scent of fresh-ground coffee wafted in the air as she busied herself making a pot. What was wrong with him? He had to get out of here before he said or did something stupid. He looked around for an escape.

As he turned, nearly bolting for the door, a shelf above the kitchen table caught his eye. Polished wood, it overflowed with books. Cookbooks. These weren’t fancy, gourmet books. No, these were old, tattered—the kind he remembered seeing in his grandmother’s house. That woman could cook.

“You get ideas for your menu from those?” He tipped his head toward the shelf.

Tara looked up. “From...?” She followed his gaze and smiled as if she didn’t notice the tension thick in the air. “Some, yes.” She took a step toward the shelf. “Some I can’t use since they don’t even make the ingredients anymore. But I was able to modify a few of them.”

She pulled down an especially tattered book and flipped through the yellowed pages. Finally, she found what she was looking for and pointed to a spot on the page. “This is the recipe I started with to make my turnovers.” She looked at him and smiled. “The ones you liked so much last night.”

Morgan smiled back, and the sound of the clock ticking over their heads was loud in the stillness between them.

His mind wound around itself. She’d noticed how much he’d liked the turnovers? She paid attention. To him.

“Do you know all your customers so well?” Damn. His voice broke on the third word. He cleared his throat.

“Some.” She stepped back and, with deliberate movements, pulled thick coffee mugs from the cupboard. “Sugar, right?”

“Uh, yeah.”

She grabbed a sugar bowl, a dainty cup with the same green color as the walls in the design on the sides. He focused on that, trying and failing to not focus on her movements.

Filling both cups, Tara took her time preparing them, his with sugar, hers with a touch of cream and sweetener. Her hands were delicate, the nails trimmed short and even. She didn’t wear any jewelry—no ring, no bracelet or watch. None of the glitz other women wore, but she didn’t need it.

He almost didn’t take the cup when she extended it to him. Almost.

Their fingers brushed. Where her skin was soft, the cup was solid. Both were warm. The scent of the coffee and something else—perfume—wafted between them.

Morgan leaned against the counter and cradled the cup. He had to do something with his hands or he’d try to touch her.

“So, tell me about Morgan Thane.” She leaned on the opposite counter and faced him. She took a deep drink from her mug and waited.

“Not much to tell. My brother, Jack, and I run our trucking company. I drive. He’s the office. Nothing fancy. What about you? Wendy says you just bought the diner.” He wasn’t into sharing anything about his past with her. Not yet, and certainly not now. Discussing Sylvie was off the table here in Tara’s pretty little kitchen.

“Yeah.” She smiled and he knew he’d found her soft spot. He focused on his cup, wishing instead that he could taste the excited blush that swept up her cheeks.

“I’ve been working on the diner for a couple months. Daisy wanted to keep going, but she just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“The diner looks different but—” He frowned, looking for the best way to explain his thoughts. “Feels the same.”

“Thanks. That’s a compliment. I always loved Daisy’s place. I tried to keep some of it.”

Tara grinned and he felt a responding warmth in his chest. He laughed, surprising himself with how good it felt. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a woman’s company.

Not since long before Sylvie left.

* * *

TARA KNEW HER apartment was small, and this kitchen even smaller. She should have felt cramped here with him. But she didn’t. She liked the closeness, and despite all her good intentions, she wanted to be closer. Much closer.

Morgan Thane attracted her. And despite her denials to Wendy, he was most certainly her type. He was a good-looking, apparently decent guy. Yep, her type.

“Where are you from, originally?” Not from here. She might have grown up in Austin, but the ranch down the road where her brother now lived had belonged to her grandparents. She’d spent plenty of time here. She knew most of the locals.

“Dallas,” he said with a definite grimace in his voice. “The business is based there.”

She nodded, taking in the information—the safe, untempting information. She tried to formulate safe, intelligent questions. “You said you have a brother. Older or younger?”

He laughed. “Younger by three years.”

Ah, the older brother. She tried not to compare him to her own three brothers.

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