“It couldn’t have been any different. Us breaking up.”

Seconds ticked by before Cliff nodded. “We were too young and we were pulled in different directions. Nothing you wanted was here.”

“Except you.”

“I felt the same about you.”

“I’m sorry I was so hard on you.”

“You had to be,” he said. “You had to set us both free.”

He brushed her hair back. “But it was perfect. Perfection is a rare thing. You don’t find it often, and it seldom lasts. We were blessed.”

He caught her face between his hands and kissed her. The way he had when the flame between them seared them with passion. She wanted this kiss more than anything, even though this was dangerous and they were still headed down separate roads. If ever the universe had decreed that a relationship wasn’t meant to be, this was it.

So why couldn’t she resist him?

Conard County: The Next Generation!

Reuniting with the Rancher

Rachel Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RACHEL LEE was hooked on writing by the age of twelve and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times best-selling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Excerpt

Chapter One

Holly Heflin walked into the lawyer’s office in Conard City with more uncertainty than she had felt in a long time, and she was used to facing some pretty ugly situations. But this was different—the reading of her great-aunt’s will. She was, as far as she knew, the only heir, so her concern didn’t lie there.

But she had arrived in Denver after a red-eye flight, hopped into the cheapest rental car she could find and driven straight here to make this meeting. She felt tired, grungy and most of all overcome by memory. Facing this meeting seemed so final.

Returning to Conard County wasn’t easy, but she had the fondest memories of visits to her aunt’s from childhood and early adulthood. They had begun washing over her from the instant the surrounding country began to look familiar, and with them came the numbness she had been feeling since the news of Martha’s death had begun to give way to a deep well of grief.

The last of her family had died with Martha, and a sense of her solitariness in the world had been striking her in an utterly new way.

But she shoved all that down as she spoke to Jackie, the young receptionist. Get through this. Get to the funeral home to watch Martha’s ashes placed in a mausoleum. Martha had always used to say she wanted to sprinkle her ashes around the ranch, but apparently that wasn’t allowed, because the attorney had been quite definite, and Martha had paid all the expenses in advance.

God, the ache was growing. The reality was beginning to settle in, tightening her chest.

The receptionist ushered her into a spacious but ancient-looking office. She supposed the balding man behind the desk was the attorney, but then she saw the cowboy in one of the chairs facing the desk.

Her heart immediately jammed into her throat. Cliff Martin? Here? Of all the people on earth she never wanted to see again, he topped the list. She’d been busily burying her memories of him for nearly a decade now, trying to forget, trying to forgive herself. Apparently she hadn’t succeeded.

He had always been attractive, but at thirty-two, Cliff Martin had become attractive to the point of danger. Weather and those ten years had etched themselves a bit on his face. Age had taken away any softness and his face now looked hard and chiseled. Those eyes were the same, though, an incredible turquoise that would make him a standout anywhere.

An instant shaft of remembered passion pierced her numbness, arrowing straight to her core and causing her insides to clench. She’d never wanted to see this man again, but apparently her body had other ideas. She glanced quickly away.

Both men rose immediately at her entrance, a courtesy that seemed quaint after the life she had been living. She tried not to look at Cliff, but couldn’t help noticing that he seemed taller. Was that possible, or had her memory shrunk him? Broad shoulders, narrow hips... Stop, she ordered herself. Just stop it now. She didn’t need this.

She immediately shook the lawyer’s hand as he introduced himself. “John Carstairs,” he said. “Good to see you, Ms. Heflin. And you remember Cliff Martin.”

She turned to Cliff, wishing he didn’t look as if he had just stepped out of a movie poster or ad. Darn, his dark hair didn’t even show a thread of gray, unlike hers.

Cliff Martin. The man who had been helping her aunt keep the place up the past few years. The man who leased most of her aunt’s grazing land. The man she had ditched. Her hand trembled a bit as she offered it.

He spoke. “So you finally got back here.”

It sounded so much like a criticism that she had to bite back an angry retort. All she could do was drop her hand, turn away and take the empty chair. Working on the streets with troubled kids had taught her to be wary of how she responded to people. Problems could start in a flash.

She managed to keep her voice even. “I’ve been back.”

The men sat. She avoided looking at Cliff Martin and focused on John Carstairs. “I traveled all night,” she said. “I may be a little slow this morning.”

He at once reached for his desk phone and punched a button. “Jackie? Could you bring some coffee for Ms. Heflin?” He arched a brow at her.

“Black, please.”

“Make it black. Thanks, Jackie.”

He released the button and sat back. Waiting. There was a strong sense of waiting, which made her even edgier after her race to get here. Then he said, “I’m sorry we had to meet under these circumstances. Your aunt was a wonderful woman.”

“Yes, she was,” Holly said honestly. “I’m going to miss her.”

“Really,” drawled Cliff.

At that she turned to stare at him. “How would you know? You know nothing.”

“You haven’t been around much.”

That wasn’t true, but again she bit back her retort. This man had no need to know anything, and she wasn’t going to dignify his criticisms with explanations he had no right to.

“Please,” said the lawyer, “let’s be pleasant, shall we?”

Holly was all for pleasant. She was too tired for the spat Cliff apparently wanted. Jackie entered, setting a cup and saucer on the edge of John’s desk in front of Holly. “Thank you.”

Jackie smiled, nodded and walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.

John leaned forward. “As I told you, Ms. Heflin, your great-aunt made all the arrangements. They’ll be waiting for you at the funeral home after we’re done here. But there are other things we need to discuss.”

“Yes,” she said. There was also one thing she knew for sure, that a visit with a lawyer was supposed to be private. “But what is Mr. Martin doing here? You said I was Martha’s sole heir.”

“He,” said John, “is the executor.”

Holly’s mind whirled. Maybe it was fatigue. Maybe it was burgeoning grief. All she knew was that she felt as if she had been sideswiped by a Mack truck. “Why not you?” she asked quietly.

“Conflict of interest. And it was your aunt’s decision.”

“Of course.” She was still trying to take this in. She was going to have to deal with a man who had every reason to believe she was hateful? Well, it wouldn’t be the first time. Still. She reached for the coffee and took a few sips, hoping to assemble her brain into a more orderly pattern than it seemed to be following right now. She noted that her hand trembled, and she quickly put the coffee down.

Deal. The word wafted up. She always dealt. Whatever life threw her way, she was good at it. She’d deal with all of this somehow, from grief to that nasty cowboy.

“I’m going to give you a copy of your aunt’s will to read at your leisure. In the meantime, I’ll just go over the broad aspects here.”

“That’s fine.” She certainly didn’t feel up to dealing with anything detailed.

“You’ve inherited the ranch. It’s free and clear except for the leases. As the law makes clear, those leases to Mr. Martin remain in place, and your aunt’s will states that he is allowed to continue leasing the land at his discretion for the next ten years.”

Holly felt her heart began to sink. That meant she would have to deal with this ghost from her past indefinitely.

“Your aunt was also a very careful woman, and left you a great deal of cash, a quite surprising amount, actually. Mr. Martin has the necessary papers giving him management of the estate, and he’ll take you to the bank to transfer the accounts into your name.”

Holly managed a jerky nod. Nothing seemed to be penetrating except that she was now locked into some kind of long-term relationship with a man she had been avoiding for a long time. A man she had never wanted to see again. Martha had known that. What had possessed her aunt?

“In addition, you’re not allowed to sell the ranch for at least ten years. But your aunt added something to that.”

Holly lifted her head. “Yes?”

“She said to find your dream. I’m not sure what she meant.”

Holly’s heart rose, just a bit. God bless Aunt Martha, even though she didn’t know what her aunt meant. “I’m not sure, either.”

Carstairs shrugged. “Well, that’s what she said, and if it has anything to do with the ranch, she made sure it would be possible for you. So those are the essentials. The rest is mostly legal stuff that you can call me about if you have questions.”

Sooner than she would have believed, she was out of the office and back on the street. Downtown Conard City hadn’t changed in any way she could perceive. It seemed to be cast in amber, preserved and unchanging. It had always charmed her, coming as she did from larger towns and cities, and she paused for a moment to soak it all in. There was a peaceful air to this place that had never failed to draw her during her visits. But since Cliff, she had never wanted to make this her home.

That wasn’t likely to change. She started to turn toward her rental when Cliff’s voice yanked her up short. “The funeral home is the other way.”

She turned. “I know. I’m driving.” What did he care?

“It’s not that far. I’ll see you there then.”

He was going to be there, too? Somehow she had imagined herself quietly putting her aunt to rest. But of course Martha must have had friends. She looked down at herself, at her overworn black sweater and slacks, and wished she had thought this through. Surely she could have dressed better for this?

God, all that had been on her mind was getting out here in time. To do her last act for her beloved great-aunt. She’d raced to find a plane ticket, fought to reserve a rental car that wouldn’t completely impoverish her, put on something black and fled her dingy apartment.

Now she felt as dingy as the streets she had left behind.

She climbed into her car, found a brush in her purse and ran it swiftly through her wavy chestnut hair. A glance in the rearview mirror told her that her makeup was long gone, not that she cared. Instead of primping any more, she headed for the funeral home.

Inside she found her fears confirmed. Some forty or fifty people milled about the place, and while she couldn’t remember any of them, they all seemed to know who she was. She was quickly swamped in condolences and a sea of names. Some offered a memory or two of her aunt.

And with each memory her throat grew tighter. Soon she could feel the sting of withheld tears in her eyes, and wished only that this would be over so she could get out to the ranch and cry in private.

God, she hadn’t even had time to get some flowers.

None too quickly, the funeral director announced it was time. The crowd followed him at a somber pace as he carried Martha’s urn through a door, across a covered walkway to a large concrete mausoleum. There, one door to a niche stood open and waiting.

Holly swallowed hard. She swallowed even harder when a man stepped forward and said, “I was Martha’s minister for many years. I know she refused a memorial service, saying she only hoped that she would be well remembered. We remember Martha well indeed. A generous woman, with a kind heart. We are grateful she passed swiftly and without warning, and know that she rests now in God’s love.”

Then he insisted on reciting the Twenty-third Psalm. Before it was done, the unbidden tears were rolling hotly down Holly’s cheeks. When the funeral director slid the urn into its niche, she stepped forward and laid her hand on it, not wanting to see it disappear, hanging on for one last moment.

“I love you,” she whispered. Then she stepped back and watched the director close and lock the door. A brass plate on the outside listed Martha’s name, her dates of birth and death. Nothing else.

When she turned she found all those people looking at her as if they expected her to speak. A moment of panic fluttered through her, memories surged, and then she remembered something her aunt had once said to her.

“Aunt Martha told me that she wanted to leave a small footprint in this world. That she wanted to leave the land as it was meant to be, and nearly everything as she had found it. Except for one thing. She hoped that she would leave small footprints in the hearts of her friends, and that they would bring smiles. Thank you all.”

Then she pivoted to stare at that closed vault. Great-Aunt Martha was gone. The times between her visits had been punctuated by weekly phone calls with her aunt. Now there would be no more calls and it hit her: there was a huge difference between being separated by miles and being separated by death.

A huge, aching chasm of a difference.

* * *

Cliff Martin watched Holly Heflin with dislike. She was still a pretty sprite, with wavy auburn hair and bright blue eyes. He felt that all too familiar surge of desire for her and had to battle down memories of how her gentle curves had felt in his arms. But too much lay between them for him to like her. While Martha had defended Holly more than once, he had the wounds to show for how she had treated him. A long-ago summer affair, brief, fleeting, had left him an angry man for a long time and convinced him that Holly was as self-centered as a woman could be. Martha’s talk of her youth hadn’t helped one whit.

Regardless, now he was tied to this woman by Martha, who for reasons he couldn’t begin to understand had made him executor of her will. Not that there was a lot to carry out. And there was Holly, a woman even more beautiful than at twenty, now part of his life again whether he liked it or not. He didn’t like it.

What had Martha been thinking? He was grateful to her for protecting his leases. It would have killed his ranching operation to give up all that land. But what was with the ten years? And the stuff about Holly following her dream?

Not that he cared about Holly’s dreams. Holly’s dreams had nearly killed him once. To his way of thinking, she wasn’t trustworthy. Maybe Martha felt the same, and had put the leases in her will to ensure Holly didn’t kick him off the land. But damn, this was going to be miserable. He needed that woman like he needed a hole in his head.

But for all he had wanted to think Holly was an uncaring witch, nothing could make him believe those tears weren’t real.

He didn’t get any of this, but he supposed it didn’t matter. Martha had gone her own way, quirky and delightful and always surprising. Why should she end her life any differently?

He watched Holly decline to go to the church for a covered-dish supper. Martha had wanted no memorial, but others were going to give it to her anyway. How that would have made her laugh.

But her niece seemed determined to follow her aunt’s wishes. He watched her walk to her car, a slender woman with beautiful auburn hair and blue eyes, and thought how utterly alone she looked. And how very sexy. Since those thoughts had gotten him in trouble once before, he clamped down on them hard, and wished them to hell.

No way was he going to fall for that blue-eyed seductress again.

With any luck, Holly Heflin would blow back out of town as fast as she had blown in, taking whatever funds Martha had left her and leaving the ranch to rot. She was a city girl, after all.

He wondered if she’d let the house and barn turn to dust. He certainly wasn’t going to do all the maintenance for her as he had done for Martha. He didn’t owe her that and she wouldn’t even qualify as a neighbor.

Damn, he felt angry for no good reason that he could figure out. He’d had a low opinion about Holly for years, so no shock there. Absolutely no reason to be angry all over again.

Cussing under his breath anyway, he skipped the potluck and headed home. He had a ranch to take care of and only one task remaining as far as Martha went: to take her niece to the bank and see that the accounts got turned over to her.

And, he supposed, to ensure she didn’t try to sell the ranch. It didn’t look as if she would care, so what the hell.

Trying to get himself into a better mood, he turned on some music on the radio, discovered a sad country song and turned it off again.

Damn, he thought. “Martha, why do I get the feeling you left me a mess and I don’t even know how bad it is yet?”

Of course there was no answer.

* * *

Holly arrived at the ranch with sand in her eyes and lead in her heart. She climbed out of the car and looked around, memories whispering to her on the breeze. As a child she had absolutely loved coming out here. As a young woman, after Cliff, the charm had rested entirely with her aunt’s company.

Turning, she surveyed the changes. Cliff must have rented damn near all the land, to judge by how close the fences were now. But he’d also kept the place up for Martha, and sooner or later she was going to have to thank him for that no matter how the words stuck in her craw.

Memories wafted over her. She’d spent some summers here as a small child, then when she’d grown up her visits had been shorter because she had a job, but still she had come, for Martha. With one exception, every memory was good. Time and frequent visits, at least, had mostly cleared Cliff from her memories of this place. It almost seemed that only Martha remained here.

Great-Aunt Martha had been the kind of woman that Holly hoped she’d grow up to be: tough, independent, doing things pretty much her own way, but kind and loving to the core.

She made herself brush away her reaction to Cliff and climbed the steps of the porch to the front door. Her key still worked and she stepped into the past, into familiar smells that carried her back over the years, into familiar sights, into a place that had always been her second home.

In that instant, knowing she would never see Martha again, she burst into the tears she’d been trying to hold back.

She’d always felt close to Martha, despite the miles that had separated them for so long, and it hurt to realize she could never again pick up the phone and hear her aunt’s voice.

Never again.

* * *

Keeping busy seemed to be the only answer. Holly was used to being busy all the time, and sitting around her aunt’s house weeping and doing nothing went against her grain. Martha, thank goodness, hadn’t been sick. She had died suddenly and unexpectedly of a stroke, a merciful way to go, for which Holly was grateful. But it also meant the house was in pretty good shape inside as well as out. Not a whole lot of housework to occupy her, other than putting away the groceries she had bought and changing bed linens.

That left going through things. Martha had been a minimalist most of her life, buying very little, keeping very little that she didn’t use. But in going through drawers and looking at photos, Holly found plenty to carry her into memory. Pictures of her visits here, pictures of her parents, photos of Martha’s own parents and grandparents. She wasn’t awash in photos, as Martha hadn’t been one for taking very many, but there were enough to be cherished.

The furnishings showed their age and use but were still serviceable. The house seemed to be ready for her, and she wondered if Martha had intended that. Maybe.

She certainly hadn’t left any unfinished chores behind her.

Finally, unable to bear any more, she headed for the bedroom she had used during her visits. The big stuffed teddy bear Martha had given her as a child still occupied the rocker in the corner. Holly fell asleep hugging it and thinking of her aunt, the last of her family.

* * *

Morning brought no relief. Sleep had been disturbed, and she hardly felt any more rested than yesterday.

Then she remembered something Martha had been definite about. “You want to do something for me? Plant a tree.”

So she decided, after choking down her breakfast, that today she would go find a tree to plant just for Martha. Its importance grew in her mind as she thought about it. Martha had wanted it, and Martha would get it.

After she finished washing her dishes, Holly gripped the edge of the counter, closed her eyes, and tried not to hear the empty silence of the house around her. She couldn’t believe she wouldn’t hear Martha’s voice at any moment. Couldn’t believe that Martha was really gone.

God, it was beginning to hit. Numbness had begun wearing off yesterday, but now it seemed to be deserting her completely.

Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, and her heart ached as if a vise gripped it. She had known it would hurt to lose her aunt, but she hadn’t imagined this. It was every bit as bad as when her parents died in the car crash. Every bit, and that grief still haunted her.

Martha had been her anchor ever since, her family, the person who kept her from feeling like an orphan, and now Martha was gone.

Never had Holly felt so utterly alone.

She wept until she could weep no more, until fatigue weighed her down and her sides hurt from sobbing. But at last quiet returned to her mind and heart. Temporarily, anyway. She fixated on getting that tree, the one wish of her aunt’s that she could still carry out.

She washed up, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, the clothes she wore when she was working with the children, and stared almost blindly at her reflection in the mirror.

Who was she? It almost seemed as if she had become a stranger to herself, as if grief were sweeping huge parts of her aside. Closing her eyes, she thought of the kids she worked with back home in Chicago, kids who were always hungry, often cold, flotsam in a sea beyond their control.

Thinking of them grounded her again, reminding her she had a purpose, and purpose was the most important thing of all.

When she finally stepped outside to face the day’s duties, she paused in the drive, feeling the spring breeze of Conard County, Wyoming, whisper all around her. Here the air was almost never still, and it seemed to carry barely heard words on it, as if it were alive.

She opened herself to it, letting it wash over her like a tender touch, the kind of tenderness she wouldn’t feel again, the tenderness of mother, father, aunt.

She took time to walk around the house taking in the small changes, having random thoughts about what she could do with this place. Her job as a social worker lay back in Chicago, but as she strolled around she realized that an ever-present tension had begun to evaporate. Today she didn’t have to walk on those streets; she didn’t have to visit tiny apartments in public housing where despair seemed to paint the walls. She didn’t have to deal with the problems of too-skinny children who were having trouble in school or at home. She didn’t have to wage a battle against desperation and hopelessness. Not today.

Then, squaring her shoulders, she strode to the car. A tree. She needed to get a tree.

She saw a vehicle coming up her driveway. A dusty but relatively recent pickup of some kind. Who could possibly be coming out here?

She didn’t have to wait long for her answer. She quickly recognized Cliff’s silhouette behind the wheel. A few seconds later he pulled up beside her.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

She resisted the urge to tell him it was none of his business, because she might have to deal with him for a long time to come. “My aunt wanted me to plant a tree in her memory. I was about to go look for one.”

He glanced at her rental. “Hard to carry in that. I was coming if to see if you wanted to take care of the bank account transfer. The sooner we clear the decks, the happier we’ll both be.”

Her teeth tightened. He really wasn’t going to let her forget. “Fine,” she said shortly.

He looked at her car again. “You planning to stay long?”

“I have a couple of weeks before I have to get back. If that’s long, then yes.”

“One rain and that car won’t get anywhere. You’ll bog down.”

“It’s a rental,” she said defensively, feeling as if he was criticizing her somehow. “Do you ever say anything that’s not critical?”

He paused. “I call things as I see them. So did your aunt. How about you?”

“What I see is a man I intended to thank for helping Aunt Martha, but right now I couldn’t choke the words out to save my life. You’re rude.”

His lips tightened, but his response was mild. “I see a little of your aunt in you.”

She didn’t respond. Ordinarily she would have taken that as a compliment, but right now she wasn’t in the mood. Besides, with this man, it must have been a sideways condemnation of some kind. He had plenty of reason to hate her, she knew, but after ten years, shouldn’t he be over it? Stupid question, she thought immediately. Her own behavior still troubled her after all these years.

“Well, climb in my cab. I can carry a tree in my bed better than you can in that car, and we can take care of the bank.”

She wanted to refuse. Oh, man, did she want to tell him to take a hike, and even more so because of the antipathy that radiated from him. She was starting to feel a whole lot of dislike for him, too. Before, she’d never disliked him, but now she wondered if she had been more wise than foolish all those years ago.

Damn this unwanted sexual attraction. Any woman would feel it, she assured herself. It was just normal. He was that kind of guy, a real-life hunk.

She didn’t want it, though. Not one little bit. She’d tasted that apple a long time ago, and it hadn’t been enough to keep her here. She’d grown up, but she was beginning to wonder if he had.

She had to give in to reality. He was right—carrying a tree would be easier in his truck.

Setting her chin, she marched around and climbed in the cab, prepared for a couple of unpleasant hours, not the least of which would be the way her body kept wanting to betray her mind and heart.

Chapter Two

As unneighborly as it felt, Cliff didn’t say a word on the way to town. What were they going to talk about anyway? Discussing Martha didn’t seem exactly safe right now, although maybe he was wrong.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to renew his relationship with Holly. Not in the least. A summer-long torrid affair a decade ago had left him scarred and her...What had it done to her? She’d turned her back on him readily enough, giving him all the reasons why she couldn’t stay in this county. She’d suffocate, she’d said. She had important things to do, she’d said. She was going to be a social worker and save the world, or at least part of the world.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and thought that social work didn’t seem to be agreeing with her. She looked entirely too thin, for one thing. He couldn’t judge anything else because she was grieving for her aunt, after all, but if he’d been looking at a horse showing those signs, he’d have been thinking “worn to the bone.”

Fatigue seemed to wrap around her. She didn’t really have the spark he remembered. Much as he didn’t want to, he wondered if social work had gutted her in some way.

But damned if he’d ask. She’d be leaving here in two weeks. By the grace of heaven, he hoped that wouldn’t be long enough to open scars or get him all tangled up in her barbed wire again.

Because that was how he thought of it: barbed wire. Her departure had scored him deep, like a million sharp knives. No freaking way was he going through that again.

Of course, he thought, she might not be the same person any longer. He might not even really be drawn to the woman she had become. So far he hadn’t seen much to like. It was almost as if he were the enemy, not the other way around.

Which got him to wondering how she had justified her cruelty. Ah, hell, leave that can of worms alone. Take her to the bank, help her buy and plant the damned tree, and then forget she was on the same part of the planet with him.

Listening to his own thoughts, however, yanked him up short. He was thinking like a kid again. She was causing him to revert. Well, to hell with that.

He was relieved the bank took only a few minutes. He showed the paper the lawyer had given him, Martha’s account was moved into a new one in Holly’s name and it was done.

Mercifully soon, they were climbing into his truck again. Holly, however, seemed to sag. Finally he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you see how much money she left me? Cliff...I’m stunned.”

“Well, you could take a decent vacation. Looks like you need one.”

She bridled, but only a bit, not as she once had. What the hell had quenched her fire? “That’s more than a vacation or even ten. And what do you mean I look like I need one?”

“You look too thin and exhausted,” he said bluntly. “Whatever kind of work you’re doing, it’s not good for your health.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I never did.” He waited for an explosion that didn’t come. Oh, this was bad. This wasn’t the Holly he remembered at all. Now, right alongside his annoyance at having her around for a while, he felt the first tendrils of worry. Was she sick?

None of his business anymore, he reminded himself. She’d made sure of that.

The town didn’t have anything like a big nursery. Around here, most planting was reserved for hay, alfalfa and vegetable gardens. But there was a corner at the feed store where it was possible to buy houseplants and some ornamental trees. Not a huge selection, but no huge demand, either. They would order stuff in, though, if, say, someone wanted to plant a windbreak or something bigger.

“What were you thinking of planting for her?” he asked as they stood looking at the tiny selection.

“Well, she always said she wanted to leave a small footprint in the world, so it should be something native.”

He hesitated a moment, wondering how far into this he wanted to get. “What are you looking for? Fast growing, flowering?”

“I want something pretty that will last. It doesn’t have to grow fast.”

He pointed. “That tulip poplar over there will give you fantastic autumn foliage. Almost like aspens, which are related. It’s pretty hardy, though.”

She looked at the tree, which right now was little more than a twig with a few leaves. “Will it get really big?”

“It’ll grow into a great shade tree.”

That decided her. Ten minutes later he was carrying it out to his truck for her.

* * *

Holly felt as if someone had let all the air out of her. Grief? Maybe. More likely it was the release of the constant tension she lived with in Chicago. Fatigue seemed to envelop her, demanding she go home and fall asleep for hours, if not days. But she still had to plant a tree. She doubted that could be safely put off for too long.

“You ever planted a tree before?” Cliff’s voice broke the silence she would have liked to continue forever.

“No.”

There was a notable pause before he said, “I’ll help.”

His reluctance couldn’t have been any more obvious. Hers equaled it. But before her pride could erupt and get her into trouble, she faced the fact that she needed the help. If she did it all wrong, she’d kill the tree. And from the size of the root ball, she questioned whether she’d even have the physical strength to dig a hole so big.

She glanced at Cliff from the corner of her eye. He’d have the strength. Damn it. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

Another mile passed, then he surprised her by speaking again. “Your aunt was a remarkably caring, giving woman,” he said. “If anyone in this county hit hard times, she was there for them. I guess you take after her.”

Reluctantly, she looked at him. “How would you know?”

“I’m assuming. You’re a social worker, right? That means you help people, right?”

She heard the annoyance in his tone and realized her response to him hadn’t been very gracious. In fact, it had been challenging. Sheesh, she needed to get a handle on this antipathy toward him. He at least was making some kind of effort, much as she really didn’t want it.

“In theory,” she said. “Yeah, in theory. Once in a while I feel like I’ve gotten something good done. Most of the time I’m not sure. It takes kids a long time to grow up.”

“You work with kids?”

“Mostly. With their parents, too, depending on what the problems are.”

“Do you get any short-term rewards?”

The question surprised her with its understanding. She hadn’t expected that. “Sometimes. But I’m not in it for rewards.”

“No, you’re in it to help.”

The echo of her words a decade ago was so strong she winced. She distinctly remembered telling him that she had a bigger need to help people than she could meet around here as a rancher’s wife. God, how full of herself she had been. She’d left wounds behind her as she’d set out like Don Quixote, with little idea of what she was getting into, or how many windmills would shatter her lance.

She didn’t answer him, instead turning her attention to the countryside that rolled past. What was the point? They’d be better off having as little to do with each other as possible. It was just that simple. Hard to believe that a fleeting affair, however torrid, might have left scars that lingered this long.

She certainly hadn’t expected it to.

One summer, a long, long time ago. She’d been visiting her aunt between semesters. He’d been gradually taking over the reins of his ranch from his father, just beginning to reach the fullness of manhood.

She had been sunning herself on a cheap, webbed chaise in the front yard, wearing a skimpy halter top and shorts, a book beside her on the grass. Martha had shooed her outdoors and was inside lining up a potluck dinner for her church. A potluck Holly had no intention of being dragged to. She was just a visitor, passing through, her sights set far away.

But then Cliff had come riding up. She hadn’t seen his approach because he came from the rear of the house, but as he rounded the corner, she caught her breath. Against the brilliant blue clarity of the sky, he had looked iconic: astride a powerful horse, cowboy hat tipped low over a strong face, broad shouldered, powerful.

She should have run the instant she felt the irresistible pulse of desire within her. She should have headed for the hills. Instead, caught up in an instant spell, she had remained while his gaze swept over her, feeling almost like intimate fire, taking in her every curve and hollow. She’d felt desire before, but nothing like what this man had ignited within her.

Then the real folly had begun. She had to return to school in two months. She’d thought he understood that. When she talked about getting her master’s and going into social work, she had thought her goals were clear. She had no intention of remaining in this out-of-the-way place as a rancher’s wife, and just as she couldn’t give up her dreams, he couldn’t give up his ranch.

So who had been at fault, she wondered now, staring out the window. They had played with fire, they’d seized every opportunity to make love anywhere and everywhere, but then the idyll had come to an end. He had wanted her to stay.

She had snapped in some way. She had been living a fantasy of some kind, and he’d intruded on it with reality. She had thrown his declaration of love back in his face, then had called him stupid for thinking it could have ever been anything but a fling.

To this day she didn’t know what had driven her cruelty. By nature she wasn’t at all cruel, but that day...well, the memory of it still made her squirm. Maybe it had been a self-protective instinct, a way to end something that could move her life in a direction she didn’t really want to go. Or maybe some part of her had been almost as desperate as he was, but in a different way.

She would probably never understand what she had done that day, but it had not only driven Cliff away, it had dashed the entire memory of that summer fling. She could not enjoy the memories of even the most beautiful or sexy moments of those weeks. All of it had to be consigned to some mental dustbin.

She had figured at the time that Martha must have known what was going on, but she’d never said a word. Now this? Maybe Martha hadn’t guessed. If she had, then there was an unkindness here she wouldn’t have believed her aunt capable of. And not just to her, but to Cliff, as well.

She sighed, pressing down memories that seemed to want to reignite right between her legs, reminding her of the dizzying pleasures she had shared with Cliff. That was gone, done for good. Over. Finished.

If only the words would settle it all in her body, which seemed inclined now to react as foolishly as it had all those years ago.

When he spoke, she felt so far away that his voice, deeper now than in the past, nearly startled her.

“I don’t mean to sound like a rube,” he said, then paused. “Hell, I am a rube. But I hear parts of Chicago can be pretty dangerous.”

“They are,” she said cautiously, wondering where he was headed.

“Did you work in those parts?”

“They’re the parts where we’re needed most, usually.”

He fell silent, and she waited. Surely he wasn’t going to leave it at that.

“You have guts,” he said, and not one more word.

“No more than the people who have to live there.”

“But you choose to be there, to help.”

She couldn’t imagine how to answer that. Yes, it was her choice, but the need cried out to her. She only wished she could provide a safer environment for those children, but the problems were huge. No one person could solve them.

“It’s partly drugs,” she said. “They encourage gang wars.”

“Like during Prohibition.”

“Yes, like that. Turf wars. Other things. Poverty grinds people down and sometimes brings out the ugliest parts of them. I just try to help kids so that they don’t get drawn into it. There’s not much else I can do to protect them, unless there’s abuse in the family.”

“It must feel thankless at times.”

She couldn’t believe he was talking to her in this sympathetic fashion. Not after the dislike that had radiated from him on their first meeting. Was he trying to mend bridges? She squirmed a little, thinking that if anyone should be trying to rebuild bridges, it was her. “Seeing just one kid make it is enough.”

“Is it?”

She had no answer for that, either. But the tension that seemed to have lifted from her just by being away for a short while was settling heavily on her. She had matters to take care of here, she reminded herself. She had to decide what to do with her aunt’s possessions, whether to rent the house—a million ends to tidy up. She couldn’t spend all her time worrying about her kids back in Chicago, not when she was too far away to do anything.

Mercifully, he dropped the subject, and little by little, she returned fully to Conard County. She wished her kids could come out here, taste life without gunshots up the street any hour of the day or night and know what it was like to live even briefly without the fear.

She sighed, twisted her hands together and reset her sights on all that lay ahead of her.

What was she going to do with the house? Her job lay over a thousand miles away. She couldn’t sell it. But renting it might lead to its ruination if she wasn’t here to keep an eye on it.

Too soon, she argued with herself. She had time. No decisions had to be made this moment. Just plant the tree for Martha and then try to find comfort in residing in Martha’s house, with all the good memories she had of her aunt.

She felt her eyes sting as she thought about Martha. The world had lost a true character and a great soul.

* * *

Cliff watched her from the corner of his eye, glancing her way from time to time as the road permitted. On a weekday, on these back roads, there wasn’t a lot of traffic. Ahead of him stretched an empty road, its only danger the potholes left behind by winter. Along either side ran fences, often hidden behind the tumbleweeds caught in them, creating a low tunnel. But in those grasses to either side of the road, he knew there were drainage ditches, invisible in the grass, but enough to cause a minor accident.

So he really should keep his attention on driving. But just as she had done all those years ago, Holly drew him. The windows were open, thank goodness, otherwise he’d be assailed by her scents, and if there was one thing he knew for certain, he hadn’t forgotten them. She still used the same shampoo; she still had the same enticing scent of femininity. Not strong, as it had been after they made love, but enough to remind him.

So here he was, stupidly walking into hell again. She’d only be here two weeks, long enough to get him all knotted up again, but completely lacking any kind of future. He hoped he had the sense to help her plant the tree and then go his way. Oh, he’d be a good neighbor and offer to keep an eye on the house when she left, but keeping an eye on a house wasn’t anywhere nearly as dangerous as keeping an eye on Holly.

He wished her thinness, her evident fatigue, would turn him off. Instead, all it was doing was turning his insides into protective mush. He couldn’t have this.

Inwardly he cussed himself for a fool, and warned himself to raise his guard. Do the minimum, stay away and turn his fullest attention to his own ranch, which had been all that had saved him all those years ago. Hard work was the answer.

Then she surprised him. She hadn’t made a single friendly gesture, but now she did. Damn it.

“How’s the ranch and business?”

Well, that ought to seem like a safe, casual question. Coming from her it felt freighted. “Okay,” he said. Then realizing how abrupt he sounded, he added, “Leasing the acreage from your aunt has been a great help. It allowed me to expand.”

“I heard cattle were getting more expensive to raise.”

“Out of sight. We’re transitioning to sheep. The wool market is still good.”

“Good.”

Clearly she wasn’t really interested in his life. If he was honest, she hadn’t been all that interested years ago, either. He might have found it easier to excuse her self-interest as youth if she hadn’t followed it up with the coup de grâce.

Then, “Are sheep more difficult to raise?”

“Troubles come in all sizes and all degrees of fuzziness.”

She surprised him with a laugh. “What a description!”

“It’s true.” He hated himself for wanting to smile. This was a demilitarized zone, not a party. “I traded one set of problems for another not so very different. The thing is, the sheep do better grazing on my land, and the wool comes every spring without me having to reduce my flock to make some money. Renewable resource.”

“I like that.”

He volunteered some more, testing her interest. “I also have a small herd of angora goats. They’re a bit more susceptible to parasites, but their wool brings a higher price, so naturally it’s more expensive to get going. Of course. So I’m growing my herd nature’s way.”

“It sounds like you have a plan.”

“I hope so. Independent ranchers are in danger of becoming an extinct species. But I’m actually doing pretty well.”

“I’m so glad to hear that, Cliff. So the sheep and goats get along well?”

“Well enough. My main headache is that the goats are more independent and adventurous. Keeping track of them can be a pain sometimes, and they need dietary additives. But when all is said and done, I like their antics.”

Oh, well, he thought. He was going to have to deal with her at least some over the next couple of weeks. Greasing the skids with some superficial chitchat and courtesy ought to be safe enough. But no way was he going to fall into her honeyed web again.

Still, despite all the ugliness that had once happened, he couldn’t help a twinge of concern. Way too thin, he thought as he glanced at her again. The bones in her face had become prominent, and her skin appeared stretched tightly across them. Not good.

But he didn’t know how to ask without crossing into territory where she didn’t want him to walk. Of that he was certain. He had begun to suspect that the past was no more buried for her than it was for him. Some things, it seemed, hurt forever.

He sought something else to say, and the question came out without thinking. “You married? Kids?”

“No and no.”

It was a short answer, making it clear there were indeed limits to how personal she wanted to get with him. Hell, he thought, who was it who had taken out the scythe at their last meeting? Certainly not him.

“I tried it,” he said finally, and waited.

Presently she asked, “And?”

“And it stank. Big-time. We couldn’t shake the bottle hard enough to mix the oil and vinegar.”

He waited, then heard a smothered laugh escape her. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, but your description...”

In spite of himself, he laughed, too. “Well, I can’t think of a better one. Martha warned me.”

“Really?”

He sensed her turn toward him for the first time. “Yeah. She said... Well, she was Martha. She asked me which head I was thinking with, and said that it would make more sense to ride my horse off a cliff than marry that woman. She was right.”

“What happened?”

“Let’s just say I went off the deep end for one woman and woke up to find myself married to a different one.”

“Ouch.”

“My ego needed some bandaging, but that was about it. Sometimes it just isn’t meant to be.”

She fell silent, and he let the subject go. It hadn’t been right with Lisa, and chances were it wouldn’t have been right with Holly, either. Not back then, for sure. Time to man up and admit it. He and Holly had been horses pulling in different directions, and if he’d been older and wiser he would have recognized it.

Well, he had learned his lessons. He hoped. All he needed to do was get that tree planted, see if Holly needed any other assistance and go back to his ranch, his sheep and his goats. It would take a special woman to want a life like that, and he couldn’t afford to forget it.

They finally jolted up to Martha’s house. “I need to get this road graded,” he remarked. “It always goes to hell over the winter and spring, and that little car of yours is going to bounce like a Ping-Pong ball.”

She didn’t say anything, and he wondered if he’d trespassed by taking possession of the problem. He didn’t know whether to sigh or roll his eyes. Oh, this was going to be fun. Thank you very much, Martha.

He braked without turning off the engine. “Where do you want to plant it?”

“I honestly don’t know. I don’t know how big it’s going to get, how much sun it needs.” She screwed up her face in the way he had once loved. “City girl here.”

How could he forget that?

“Southwest corner,” he suggested. “It’ll get enough sun, keep the house cooler in the summer and lose all its leaves so it won’t keep you colder in the winter.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Slowly he rolled the truck around the house. “It’s going to need a lot of water the first month. And that’s going to be a drag. Martha doesn’t have an outside tap, so no hose.”

“Really? I never noticed that before.”

Why would she? She’d never been here long enough to really learn anything, although she had been here long enough to cause him a peck of trouble.

“I’ll have someone see to it after you go home.” That’s as far as he would go. Or so he told himself.

“Thank you.”

Damn it, he could almost hear Martha laughing and asking, “When did you turn into a chicken, boy?”

Then Holly said, “Martha always had such a big vegetable garden. She had to water it somehow.”

“That’s where the hand pump comes in. Come on, you were here lots of times. Surely you saw.”

She paused. “My God, I’d forgotten. Of course I remember. I used to love to do it for her.”

“Right. She planted in rows and pumped until the water filled the space between them. Every couple of days. The last few years it got harder for her, so I put in a motorized pump for her. Maybe you missed it.”

“I guess so. My job gives me only short vacations.”

“Well, it won’t help with the tree regardless. It’s going to be buckets.”

“I can do that,” she said stoutly.

He had his doubts, but maybe she was stronger than she looked right now.

The truth was, and he readily admitted it, he couldn’t imagine her life in Chicago, nor how she could want to go back to it. Gunshots on the streets? The crushing poverty? Gang culture? Like so many, he had only a vague idea of how some people had to live. She volunteered to face that every day. From his point of view, it had certainly taken a toll on her.

Even so, when she walked ahead of him to pick out the exact spot for the tree, he couldn’t help noticing the way her hips swayed. Or that when she turned her breasts were still full. A beautiful woman. A desirable woman.

Too bad.

When she’d chosen a spot, he headed for Martha’s shed to get a shovel. While he did that, Holly disappeared inside, then returned with two tall glasses of iced tea.

“I seem to remember you liked sugar,” she said, handing him one.

“Still do,” he admitted. “I know it’s a vice, but I work it off.”

The corners of her mouth edged up a bit. “I guess you do. I can help with this.”

“I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to dig this ground around here, but we’re going to be lucky if we don’t need a backhoe.”

That drew another small laugh from her. Angling the spade, he stood on it with one foot and penetrated the ground by about six inches. Good, the spring rains hadn’t completely dried up yet. Dirt instead of concrete.

“Being in the house is difficult,” Holly said quietly.

He looked up after tossing another shovelful of dirt to the side. “It is?”

“I keep expecting to hear Martha. To see her come around a corner. Even when it was just her and me, it never, ever seemed so silent in there.”

He hadn’t thought about that. He paused and looked back at the two-story clapboard house. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess it would be quiet.”

His gaze returned to Holly and he saw a tear rolling down her cheek. Whatever else he thought of her, he’d never doubted that she loved her aunt.

But talk about putting a man in an impossible bind. The thing to do would have been to hug her and comfort her. With anyone else, that’s exactly what he would have done. But Holly was so far off-limits he couldn’t even offer the most common act of sympathy. Finally he asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

She dashed the tear away. “Eventually. I just miss her so much. Damn, Cliff, I can’t even call her anymore. That keeps striking me over and over. I’ll never hear her voice again.”

He deepened and widened the hole with a few more spadefuls, then leaned on the handle and glanced at her.

“You can hear her voice,” he said. “She’s in your mind and heart now. Just give in to it and listen. If I know Martha, she’s probably whispering something outrageous in your ear right this instant.”

He finally got the hole big enough and put the tree in it. Kneeling, he tested the soil near the bottom and found it still held some moisture.

“Get a bucket of water,” he told Holly. “Just flip the switch on the side of the pump and it’ll start coming. There’s a bucket in the shed.”

She hopped to obey. It occurred to him he might have to prime the pump, so he was checking it out as she returned.

“Okay, it’s ready. Put the bucket under the spout, hook it here.” Like all good pumps, it had a nipple to hold a bucket handle. He showed her how to turn it on, then waited with her while it filled.

“There you go.”

To his surprise, she lifted the five-gallon bucket and with both hands carried it over to the tree. Layer by layer, they watered lightly and refilled the hole. When he was done, he ridged the dirt in a ring around the tree. “Now fill this ring and just let it soak in. You’ll probably need to do that every day.”

He pulled off his work gloves, leaving her to it, and put the spade away. When he returned from the shed, he found her standing with an empty bucket, staring into space.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“It’s just so peaceful out here. I wish some of my kids could experience life like this, even if only for a short time.”

Then he said the stupidest, most idiotic words to ever cross his lips. “So why don’t you bring some of them out here?”

She looked at him then. Really looked at him, her blue eyes wide and almost wondering. His groin throbbed a warning. Had he really just suggested she come back here?

Man, he needed to finish up and get out of here now.

Chapter Three

Cliff left shortly after the tree was properly planted and watered. He’d even staked the slender trunk with bands in three directions so the wind wouldn’t tip it over, or make it grow crooked, at least for now.

But then he was gone, and empty prairie winds blew around her. She stood looking toward the mountains, still dark green and gray in the early-afternoon sunlight, but soon the sun would sink behind them and the light would paint them purple.

She couldn’t remember ever having felt so alone. Well, except for one night in Chicago, on a dark street when she had been attacked. She had felt alone in the world then, and it had seemed like forever before the cops had arrived. Someone in the poverty-stricken area had taken a huge risk calling them. She never knew who, and she didn’t want to because she feared for the caller.

She had mostly gotten used to the conditions she worked in. When she wasn’t making home visits, she was working with various programs designed to keep youngsters busy and off the streets. She was used to hearing random gunfire, though, used to the screeching of tires as some gang blew by, showing off their disdain for traffic laws and any unfortunate person who might be trying to cross a street.

Never alone, whether surrounded by good people or troublemakers. Except that one night. And now.

After the attack, she’d been given a few weeks off and had come here to recover. The contrast had really struck her then, and it was striking her now.

Except this time Martha wasn’t here to listen, to advise, to sympathize. Another thing struck her right then: for all the tea, sympathy and advice, Martha hadn’t even hinted that she should find a safer job. Not once.

She lifted her eyes to the sky and asked, “What’s it all mean?”

Of course there was no answer. She turned from the tree and stared at the house. She could stay here. Martha had left her more than enough money that if she was careful she needn’t ever work again.

But that didn’t seem like something Martha would want for her, a dead-end existence without purpose. Martha had always been doing something for someone. A giver by nature.

And a great example.

So why don’t you bring some of them out here? Cliff’s question came back to her. Why not? She could imagine the red tape. Taking kids across state lines to spend a few weeks with her here? Not likely.

It was all too easy to imagine the hoops, then the structure she’d have to build. She couldn’t do it alone. She’d need help with the kids, trained help. She’d need things for them to do. Would they stay in the house or should she build a bunkhouse?

The next thing she knew, she was sitting in Martha’s rocker on the front porch, rocking steadily, staring out over wide-open spaces, feeling an oddly healing touch in the emptiness of the world around here.

Those kids deserved a taste of this, she thought. An opportunity to live for a short while without the hunger and fear that filled their lives. To be able to fall asleep at night to quiet instead of gunshots.

She tried to dismiss the idea as utterly impractical. The amount of work in just getting it rolling, all the obstacles and roadblocks she’d run into. And while she was working on that, how could she keep up with her job?

Nor did she want to be so close to Cliff. He’d been pleasant enough today, she gave him credit for that, but her tension around him was almost as bad as her tension on a dark city street. It was an incautious, overwhelming desire for him, every bit as strong as it had been all those years ago when she’d given in to it and caused some serious pain.

And while she had never let Cliff know, leaving him behind hadn’t been easy for her, either. No, she hadn’t wanted the commitment he was offering. Hadn’t been ready for it. Had been set on her goal to help kids to the point that she couldn’t imagine any other life.

So she had gotten what she really wanted, and now life had brought her full circle to deal with all the unanswered questions.

How could she best help those kids? And why did she still want Cliff?

Why don’t you just bring some of them out here?

Why had he asked that question? What had he been thinking? His face had revealed nothing, but he’d been quick to leave after that, as quick as he could.

Could she stand being this close to him for any length of time, which bringing kids out here would require? But as soon as she asked herself, she felt selfish. If there was some way to help kids with her legacy, then she needed to do it, Cliff or no Cliff.

But maybe bringing those kids out here for even a few weeks or months might not be kind at all. To give them a taste of a different life and then plop them back into their old messes? It would help only if she could make them see possibilities to work for when they got home. Dreams they could believe in.

Propping her chin in her hand, unaware that the afternoon was fading into twilight, she twisted the idea around in her head, half wishing Cliff had never mentioned it, half wishing she could find a useful way to do it.

The chill of the night penetrated finally, and she went inside to make herself a small supper. Once again the empty silence of the house hit her hard, making her eyes sting and her chest tighten.

Live here alone forever? No way. Somehow there had to be another way. A better way. A useful way.

* * *

Damn memory, Cliff thought. He’d given up all hope of sleeping. Again. Since he’d heard that he was going to have to see Holly again, he’d been an insomniac, and now the insomnia had grown to devour most of the night hours.

As for memory...there were all kinds of it, he was discovering. He wasn’t remembering the way Holly had looked all those years ago. No. Mental pictures had nothing to do with it.

Instead his mind was plaguing him with the sounds she made during passionate sex. His hands, indeed his entire body, were resurrecting the way her skin had felt against him, the way she felt beneath him. His palms itched with the certain knowledge of how it felt to caress her, how her breasts felt in his hands, the hard way her nipples pebbled, the dewiness of her womanhood.

And scents. They filled his nostrils almost as if she were right there, sated and content.

He even remembered exactly, exactly, how it had felt to plunge into her warm depths.

Much as he tried to banish the thoughts, they planted themselves and stayed like unfinished business. He couldn’t see Martha’s house from his place, but it didn’t matter. There weren’t enough hundreds of square miles in this county to make him comfortable when she was in it.

His body ached with a need to take her again, to touch her again, to fill her again. Not even his wife had ever awakened such a craving in him.

Damn Holly, damn Martha and, God, he hoped that she didn’t take that stupid thought of his seriously. Bring those kids here? He couldn’t imagine the scope of the undertaking, but even less could he imagine life with Holly nearby. This county wasn’t big enough for both of them.

He shoved out of his bed impatiently, aware that if he didn’t watch it he was going to make love to Holly in his mind. Maybe that had been part of the problem in his marriage with Lisa. Maybe at some unconscious level he had considered Lisa second best.

He didn’t know, but if so, he ought to despise himself. Staring out the window at a night as dark as pitch, he wrestled his internal demons.

Ten years later, even after the awful way she had treated him, he still wanted her as much as the very first time. Did that make him sick? He didn’t know that, either.

He just knew that seeing her had fueled a fire that had never quite gone out. Now what the hell was he going to do about it?

He’d thought he’d finally learned to roll with life, the good and the bad, but now he wondered. That woman out there had the ability to turn him into a kid again. He was randier than a goat, and it didn’t please him.

Sometimes, on rare, restless nights, he’d go saddle up Sy and take a ride. The gelding seemed to enjoy those nighttime rambles. He let Sy choose the course and the pace, and sometimes that gelding would open up his throttle wide and gallop hell-for-leather.

But it was a moonless, dark night, not safe for riding, and besides, he had a feeling that if he mounted up, he’d end up at Martha’s place like a lovesick dog.

So he stood there aching, remembering, knowing it had been a dream that could never happen again. He needed to get a grip.

But the grip kept slipping away, lost in dizzying sensual memories.

* * *

A few miles away, Holly wasn’t doing much better. She had fallen asleep only to wake twisted in her sheets and drenched in perspiration. She had dreamed of Cliff, which she hadn’t done in years, but it had gotten all twisted up in her dream with the guys who had attacked her last year.

How could she want something that still frightened her? That overlayering of the attack ought to be a warning. She’d avoided dating since then, because she couldn’t quite erase the memory of stinking breath and pawing, filthy hands. Any time a guy got too close, she headed for the door.

But she’d done the same to Cliff before then, and for the first time she wondered who she really was and what might be going on inside her.

All she knew was that Cliff still drew her as he had from the first. At least the years had made her considerably less self-centered. She’d hurt the man badly, and she wasn’t going to risk doing it again, whether she craved him or not.

She just wished she knew what it was about him. Nobody had ever gotten to her the way he had.

She took the teddy bear from the chair and pulled it over to the window. Even with the curtains open, she couldn’t see much, but she didn’t care. She lifted the sash just a bit, letting some chilly air into the room, hoping it would cool her down. Then she hugged the bear and sat, watching the impenetrable night.

Thinking about Cliff was the ultimate waste of time, she told herself. She’d hurt him badly, and while he’d been civil and even pleasant today, that had been common courtesy. It had been obvious to her at their first meeting that he ranked her somewhere near rat poison on his list of things he liked. Nor could she blame him. She had burned that bridge herself.

She tried instead to think about the little kernels of an idea he had planted today, but her mind remained stubborn. Even as her body dried off and began to feel chilled, Cliff persisted in dominating her thoughts.

A decade had passed and she still wanted him. That was surely crazy.

Then she saw movement outside. She leaned toward the window and strained her eyes. Horse and rider? What the— Jumping up, she pulled off her damp nightgown, pulled on a dry and much more modest one, then headed downstairs.

She was sure of one thing: only one person would be riding up to this house in the middle of the night.

She reached the front door just as he came riding around the corner of the house. He wasn’t even looking in her direction, just kind of ambling along. She grabbed a jacket off the coat tree, pulled it on and stepped out.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

He drew rein and turned his mount in her direction. “Curing insomnia,” he said. “We shouldn’t have disturbed you.”

“You didn’t. I was awake.”

“Sorry I didn’t bring a horse for you.”

Oh, that was a mistake, she thought as memory slammed her again. They’d gone riding together so many times during that summer, laughing and carefree until passion would rise again. They’d made love on a bed of pine needles, once on a flat rock in the middle of a tumbling mountain stream, another time...

Clenching her hands, she forced memory back into its cage. “Does it help the insomnia? Riding?” It seemed like a safe question.

“I don’t think anything’s going to help tonight,” he said bluntly.

Even though she could barely see him, she could feel his eyes boring into her. The quiet night settled between them, disturbed only by the jingle of the horse’s bridle as it tossed its head a little.

“Well,” he said, “we’ll just move on.”

She knew what she should have done, but before she could act sensibly, words popped out of her mouth. “Want some coffee? I know it won’t help you sleep...”

“It’s almost dawn. No point in sleeping now.” For a few seconds it seemed he was going to continue his ride, but then he swung down from the saddle. “Coffee would be great.”

She turned quickly and headed back inside, partly to avoid getting too close to him, and partly to warm up. Late spring? The nights still got chilly.

She wished she’d grabbed a robe, but the long flannel nightgown she had put on was probably almost as concealing. Which led her to another question as she made the coffee. Why had she been in such a rush to get down here when she had been certain it was Cliff riding by?

She shook her head at her own behavior. Maybe this house just felt too empty with Martha, but it was pretty sad that she was reaching out to Cliff.

So there she was, missing Martha even more because she ought to be here, hundreds of miles from home, troubled by a weird nightmare that had somehow combined Cliff with the attack on her when the two were totally unrelated. She wondered if she was losing it.

Or maybe grief had just scrambled her thinking. It was certainly possible.

She heard Cliff come through the house to the kitchen, and it seemed his steps were slow. Evidently he wasn’t really looking forward to having coffee with her. Well, why should he? But he could have just refused.

“Have a seat,” she said. She remained where she was, staring at a coffeemaker that seemed to be taking forever and a window that stared back at her blackly, showing her more of the kitchen behind her than the world outside.

It was a big country kitchen. Martha had once talked about the days when the family was big, when they had hired help and everyone would gather here for the main meal of the day. At home she had an efficiency, with barely enough room for a narrow stove, small sink and tiny refrigerator. If she wanted to cook, she had to do the prep on her dining table in the next tiny room.

Still, the house was awfully big for one person, but she couldn’t sell it for ten years. She definitely needed to find a good way to put it to use.

Wandering thoughts again, but when the coffeemaker finished, so did the wandering.

“You still like it black?” she asked.

“Yes. Thanks.”

So she carried two mugs to the table, and finally had to sit facing him. No way to avoid it any longer.

He looked tired, she thought. Well, lack of sleep would do that. But damn him, he remained every bit as sexy as he had all those years ago. Maybe even more so. That didn’t seem fair.

“You’ve lost weight,” he remarked. “Have you been sick?”

She shook her head. “Just busy. Sometimes I just feel too tired to eat.”

“That’s not good.” When she didn’t answer, he spoke again. “I take it your job is draining. Want to tell me about it?”

“What’s to tell? I work with people most of society doesn’t care about. People who never had a real chance in life. Most of my job is trying to get children to do the things that will give them a chance. To avoid the things that will take away their chances. We try to give them a safe environment after school, encourage them to finish homework, feed them, expand their horizons a bit. And then they go home to the same despair.”

He gave a low whistle.

“Maybe that’s not entirely fair,” she said after a moment. “There are some bad parents. There are in any group. When I first started I was investigating abuse cases that occurred at very nice addresses. Then I moved over to work with underprivileged kids. A lot of people may not believe it, but some of my strongest supporters with these kids are their parents. They want their children to have a better life. But it’s kind of hard to believe in when you come home to a run-down apartment where no one cares enough even to get rid of the roaches, and there’s little food in the refrigerator.”

“Colliding worlds?”

She nodded, closing her eyes. “You have to take it a step at a time,” she said finally. “Right now I’m organizing a couple of communities to demand exterminators. You’d think management would at least provide that. Little kids shouldn’t be living with roaches, rats and mice. It’s not healthy. Sometimes they get bitten.”

“God!”

“Anyway, sometimes I feel like I’m trying to hold back a flood with a broom. These people are so ground down. But then you see the spark of hope in them when they think you can help their kids. They really care about that.”

“But you’re just one person.”

“But I’m not the only social worker. We do what we can. It’s hard not to get impatient, though. I could use a magic wand.”

“I imagine so.”

She opened her eyes, but looked back toward the window. “What you said earlier about bringing some of them out here?”

She noticed his response was hesitant. “Yeah?”

“I wish I could. I was thinking about it, but the problems are huge. And while Martha might approve, I’d need to get through all kinds of red tape. And then I asked myself what I could do for them in a couple of weeks here. Or even a whole summer here. Would I just make it harder on them when they had to go home?”

“That’s a tough question. I didn’t think about that.”

She shrugged and finally managed to look at him again. “It needs a lot of planning in a lot of ways. But I keep thinking how wonderful it might be for them to have a month or two when they just simply didn’t have to be afraid or hungry.”

“So they’re afraid, too?”

“They’re living in a damn war zone. Gangs. Drugs. Turf wars. They learn to be afraid very early.”

He cursed. “That’s no way for a kid to grow up.”

“I agree. But as one of my friends often reminds me, a lot of kids in the world are growing up exactly that way.”

“But it ought to be different in this country.”

He spoke with so much vehemence that she blinked. She’d never had time before to find out if Cliff had a social conscience. Apparently he did.

She glanced away toward the window again. She didn’t want to find any reasons to like this guy. None. She’d be leaving again in two weeks, whatever she decided to do with this ranch.

But then her thoughts wandered a different, faraway path. “You get used to it,” she said presently. “You just get used to it.”

“Have you?”

“I guess so. I didn’t realize until I got here just how much tension I was carrying all the time. My first night here I could feel it letting go. Something inside me is uncoiling. But it never uncoils for those children. Even in a safe place, like their homes, or at the youth center, I’m sure it never has long enough to let go because in just a short while they’re going to step outside again.”

He didn’t offer any bromides, but she heard him drum his fingers on the table. She needed to get away from this subject for a little while, she realized, because even just talking about it and thinking about it was ratcheting up her tension.

She fixed him with her gaze. “Do you have a lot of insomnia?”

“Sometimes. Usually not this bad.”

“I’d think with how hard you work, you’d just conk out.”

“You’d think.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Maybe I’m just one of those people who doesn’t need a whole lot of sleep. I certainly don’t walk around feeling sleep deprived.”

“I can’t imagine it. Sometimes I think I could sleep around the clock.”

“Maybe I should let you get back to it.”

The perfect out. She should have grabbed it, but she didn’t. “No, I’m fine. I think I’m done with sleep tonight. I was sitting upstairs thinking about things when I saw you ride up. I’m wondering if this house is always going to feel so achingly empty without Martha.”

“I don’t know. I wish I could tell you. I miss her, too, and I didn’t even live here, but you’re right, I keep expecting to hear her voice.”

“Yeah. And for some reason I’m focusing on that. That I’ll never hear her voice again except inside my own head.”

He hesitated visibly, then said, “Martha told me you were attacked once in Chicago.”

At that instant she seriously wanted to throw him out. His company had at least distracted her from that mixed-up dream where one instant she was with Cliff in the throes of passion and in the next she was being grabbed and pawed by that slimeball. She still didn’t understand why her mind had hooked those two things together, even in a dream, but she certainly didn’t want to think about the attack.

He must have read her face. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up, but I’ve worried about you ever since.”

“Why should you worry at all about me after the way I treated you?” she demanded, angry but not at all sure whether she was mad at him or something else. “And that was my business. Why would Martha tell you about that?”

He responded to her anger, his face darkening. “She worried about you. Constantly. Maybe she never told you, but she did. And after that, I worried, too. There’s a lot of crap between us, Holly. I’ve got plenty of reason not to like you. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to you.”

He pushed back from the table. His face had grown hard, and his voice chilly. “Call me if you need anything. Martha put me on autodial.”

Then he walked out. Just like that. Not even a goodbye.

She sat alone at the table, cooling coffee in front of her, trying to sort through the tangled web of emotions inside her, but it proved impossible. All of it was impossible. She couldn’t imagine how she would ever get herself straightened out.

Coming back here had been a mistake. Dealing with rough neighborhoods by and large wasn’t nearly as dangerous as dealing with emotions. Things that could kill your body weren’t half as scary as things that could kill your heart.

Then she put her head down on the table and let the tears roll. Martha. Cliff. The past. The present. The only thing she was certain of was that she missed Martha with a grinding ache.

And sometimes, like now, her brain would furtively sneak in a question she didn’t want to hear: Had she made a mistake by not staying here and marrying Cliff?

Too late now, but apparently part of her would always wonder.

Damn, when she had raced to get out here, she had assumed that she wouldn’t see Cliff. He’d steadfastly stayed away during her visits to Martha after their affair, and it hadn’t crossed her mind that it would be different this time.

But here she was, and Cliff wasn’t staying away. Not at all. Although if she was to judge by the way he had just left, he might not come back.

That would be for the best, she told herself. Much better if she never laid eyes on him again. Even after all these years, he could still roil her emotions and waken her passions, and she really didn’t need that. Not now, not ever.

* * *

Cliff steamed as he rode home, but he reserved his anger for himself. He’d been stupid to accept Holly’s offer of coffee. He knew that woman could sting him, but he’d put himself right in the line of fire. Nobody to blame but himself.

As for her being upset that he knew she had been attacked, what was that? It hardly amounted to a shameful secret, and both he and Martha had worried about her. Hell, Martha had often talked about Holly and her concerns. Who else was she going to talk to? Nobody else around here knew Holly.

At first he’d found it uncomfortable to talk about the woman who had torched his hopes, but time had made it easier. He wondered about Martha, though, and about this whole setup.

Martha was no fool. She must have guessed what was going on between him and Holly that long-ago summer. At their age, she’d probably guessed they weren’t just two friends who liked to spend long hours alone with each other. No, she had to have known, even though she’d never said a word.

Of course, she couldn’t have known why they broke up. Maybe she thought it had been reasonably friendly. That much was possible, and might explain the current insanity of his being executor of the estate.

But why tell Holly she couldn’t sell the house for ten years? And while being executor didn’t exactly burden him with things he had to do, it remained that he felt Martha had meant him to keep an eye on things. Keep an eye on Holly.

Hell.

He almost muttered under his breath. Sy was getting a little antsy, though, probably picking up on his mood. The light wasn’t so great yet, although the first signs of dawn rode the eastern horizon. Regardless, he slackened the reins, trusting Sy to choose his own pace and safe ground. He’d long since learned it was the safest way to let a horse open up. They seemed to smell prairie-dog holes well in advance, and to see other obstacles quickly.

With the lack of tension, Sy cut loose. He hit a full gallop across the rangeland, maybe half a mile, then settled into a comfortable walk again. Cliff leaned forward, patting his neck.

“Better, boy?”

Sy tossed his head.

“I guess so.” But it wasn’t better for Cliff. He hadn’t been the one galloping. The question remained: What had Martha expected of him? And if she’d expected something, why hadn’t she given him a clue? Apparently, she hadn’t given Holly any clues, either, except that stuff about finding her dream. That was certainly opaque.

He sighed, feeling the last of the night’s chilly air, and tried to corral his thoughts. He had a lot to do today, and no energy to waste on thinking about Holly. He’d deal with whatever turned up as it became necessary.

In theory she was going back to Chicago in just under two weeks. Back to the job she had always wanted. A job that he thought might be slowly killing her. But what did he know?

He rode around to the barn and turned Sy over to one of his hired hands. He usually cared for the horse himself, but this morning he didn’t feel like it.

Ruben took the reins from him. “You got company, Boss.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that comes in a sports car.”

“Out here?” Cliff’s brows raised. He tried to think of anyone who might have business with him, because his neighbors and friends sure didn’t drive those cars. Useless out here.

He walked in through the back door and mudroom. His housekeeper, Jean, was at the kitchen sink. She looked at him, and her expression held none of its usual welcome.

“She’s in the living room.”

“Who?”

“Go look.”

He shook his head, wondering what the hell was going on. “Coffee?”