Engaged to be married?

Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut, wishing, hoping, praying to disappear. Somebody was going to look very foolish in the next minute or two. Most likely, that somebody would be her.

“Phoebe,” Tommy said, “why don’t you come on up and let us introduce you to the good people of New Skye?”

She opened her eyes and looked for Adam, who had left the speaker’s stand and moved nearer to where she stood. Holding out his hand, he waited for her to join him. He had decided to go along with Tommy’s lie.

If she protested, denied the engagement, Adam’s campaign would end today, this minute, his credibility with the voters destroyed.

“Phoebe?” Adam’s voice came to her…a question, a plea.

She couldn’t resist.

Turning to the crowd, he held her close to him with one arm and waved with the other, grinning wildly.

Tommy announced, “The future Mrs. Adam DeVries.”

To Phoebe, the words sounded like the clang of a heavy iron door…the door to her new prison cell.

Dear Reader,

Often, writers will say that their characters “talk” to them. I’ve been known to sit my characters in a comfortable (if imaginary) chair and treat them as a psychotherapist might, asking leading questions and saying, over and over again, “How did you feel about that?”

With this particular book, I had more trouble than usual interviewing the hero. Adam DeVries doesn’t talk much. When he does, he says as little as possible…because Adam stutters. No amount of coaxing can get him to ramble on about his childhood, his background, his family. He doesn’t want to discuss his failures or his successes—he simply wants to get things done. Adam is a decent, honorable man who puts himself on the line for his beliefs. Though he’s the last person you would expect to enter politics, with its endless campaigning and public speaking, that’s what his ideals lead him to do. Sometimes the only way to conquer your weakness is to face it head-on.

And sometimes you need a little help with that task. Phoebe Moss loves to help, which is why she became a speech therapist in the first place. Adam’s goal, and his gallantry, involve her deeply in his campaign, in his life. These two ride into battle very much like knights-errant in the old, old days, only to discover that the fight ahead may require more sacrifice than either of them can bear.

The Last Honest Man is the third book in my AT THE CAROLINA DINER series for Harlequin Superromance. I hope you enjoy Adam and Phoebe’s story, and that you’ll let me know what you think.

Happy reading!

Lynnette Kent

PMB 304

Westwood Shopping Center

Fayetteville, NC 28314

or lynnettekent.com

The Last Honest Man
Lynnette Kent

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Laura,

with admiration

and gratitude

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Adam DeVries: Mayoral candidate and owner of DeVries Construction

Phoebe Moss: A speech therapist

Cynthia DeVries: Adam’s mother

Preston DeVries: Adam’s father

L. T. LaRue: A corrupt businessman

Curtis Tate: The mayor of New Skye

Kellie Tate: The mayor’s wife

Tommy Crawford: Adam’s campaign manager

Samantha Pettit: Reporter for the New Skye News

Dixon Bell: A songwriter and friend of Adam’s

Kate Bowdrey: Dixon’s fiancée

Charlie Brannon: Owner of Charlie’s Carolina Diner

Abby Brannon: Charlie’s daughter, who keeps the diner running

Jacquie Archer: A farrier, Phoebe’s neighbor

Erin Archer: Jacquie’s daughter

Teresa DeVries: Adam’s sister

Tim DeVries: Adam’s brother

Jenna Franklin: Phoebe’s business partner

Pete Mitchell: A state trooper and Adam’s friend

Mary Rose Mitchell: Pete Mitchell’s wife

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

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

PROLOGUE

HEADED DOWNTOWN ON A SWEET May morning, Adam DeVries whistled as he waited through the stoplight at the top of the hill, enjoying the warm breeze that reached inside the open window to ruffle his hair.

One second—one classic double take—later, his world started spinning in the opposite direction.

He let his jaw drop as he stared at the ravaged parcel of land to his left across the street. All the newly leafed trees he expected to see there had vanished, not to mention every last blade of spring-green grass. And the old stone chimney, a landmark of sorts, was gone.

The traffic signal above his truck turned green, red again, then green, and a honk from behind prompted him to get out of the way. Adam swung left at the next corner, wheeled into the first driveway he came to and backed out just as fast. He paid lip service to a stop sign, pulled out onto Main Street and headed up the hill. Approaching the traffic light from the other direction, he turned right on red and screeched to a stop beside the razed lot. Once out of his truck, he strode around the front end but then pulled up short, his stomach constricting and his knees suddenly weak. The sight before him was even worse than he’d imagined.

One of the most beautiful pieces of land in all of New Skye, North Carolina, had been reduced to an ugly square of brown dirt, pitted and peaked by truck tires and bull-dozer treads. A two-legged wooden sign lay flat on the ground, informing those who stood over it that this site had been rezoned for commercial use. Coming soon was a Speedy Spot convenience store and gas station, built by LaRue Construction.

Adam swore loud and long. Then he mourned.

Mourned for the childhood hours he’d spent here under the magnolias and poplars and oaks, some of them more than a hundred years old. When the 1880s house on the site burned down in the 1950s, the Brewer family had moved to a newer, safer home, but they’d cleaned up the lot, leaving the sturdy chimney standing among the trees. All the years since, they’d kept the weeds and grass mown for kids—like Adam and his brother and sister and his best friend Tommy—who’d brought balls and bats, books and games of make-believe to play in their special place. Teenagers sometimes hid under the trees in the dark to make out, though the police tended to keep a close eye on this unofficial “park” at night. Sunday afternoons, a family might wander down with their dog and their baby in a stroller, just to take in the fine weather and the view of downtown New Skye.

Adam could enjoy that view from where he stood now—not at the edge of the slope on the back of the lot, but on the street side—because the trees were gone. To his right, Main Street descended the Hill, as they called it, to the green circle of lawn that separated the grand old Victorian courthouse from traffic. Beyond the courthouse, the street with its new brick pavers stretched between tall crepe myrtle trees and giant planters filled with colorful flowers, which stood in front of renovated shops and offices. Anchoring downtown at the far end of Main were the new town hall and police department buildings.

There the trouble lay. Being in the construction business himself, Adam closely followed the rezoning notices for New Skye and the county. This case, though, had flown in under his radar. He’d missed the motion, the discussion and the vote that changed the use of the Brewer land from residential to commercial, forcing the owners to sell. Had he been sloppy? Or had the whole transaction been camouflaged to avoid public notice? A number of powerful people in town would have protested the conversion of this property…if they’d been informed.

“I s-spent an hour in the r-records office yesterday afternoon,” Adam told his best friends during breakfast the next morning. After a couple of hard and fast hours of basketball, they were settling in for a decent meal at Charlie’s Carolina Diner, where they’d been coming for more Saturdays than they wanted to remember. “M-Mayor T-Tate slipped the m-motion into a city c-c-council m-meeting with no prior notification to the p-public.”

“The council went along without a whimper, no doubt, ’cause they’re his buddies.” Tommy Crawford shook his head. “I bet L. T. LaRue sat there the whole time, just grinning. He got what he wanted out of the deal—another building site.”

“Kachink, kachink,” Dixon Bell added. “All that scumbag ever thinks about is money.”

They all stared glumly at their plates. “It’d be nice if they mayor and the city council gave some thought to the ordinary people in this town,” Pete Mitchell said after a minute, “especially when there are real problems to be addressed.” As a highway patrolman, Pete ran an after school program for juvenile offenders; he knew the hardships imposed by funding cuts. “I suppose that gas station will increase the tax base, but if it makes the town a less desirable place to live, then people won’t move here and the tax base’ll go down…” He shook his head. “I’m not sure there’s a solution.”

“We could murder the incumbents,” Dixon suggested, with a wicked lift of his eyebrow.

Pete shook his head. “I don’t want to go to prison on account of Curtis Tate and L. T. LaRue.”

“The solution,” Tommy said, pointing with his knife, “is to get some honorable people in the government, men and women who’ll care about what’s right, not what’ll make them rich.”

This was the very conclusion Adam had drawn late last night, when he made his big decision.

Tommy glanced around the table. “This is an election year, gentlemen. We’ve got the chance to make a change. So which of us is gonna run for mayor?”

Amidst the muttering of the other guys, Adam took his stand. “I w-w-will. I’ll r-run f-for m-mayor.”

Tommy looked at him with raised eyebrows. “DeVries?”

In the silence, Adam looked at each man in turn—the boys he’d gone to school with, the friends he counted on when he needed help. “Wh-what d-do you th-think?”

Their hesitation lasted for a blink of an eye. Then they were all over the plan, giving advice, predicting success. Mounting a campaign would require money—they’d be sure he had enough—and time, which they offered freely. To hear them talk, the votes had already been tallied, the outcome secured.

Only when the others had left the diner and Adam sat alone with Tommy did the real impediment to their plan come up.

“So…” Tommy rolled his iced tea glass between his palms. “You’re gonna run for mayor. You don’t have a wife or kids to worry about. That’s convenient. And you’re the perfect candidate—good looks, good reputation, good family, everything we could want.”

“B-but…” Adam didn’t have to ask what Tommy was thinking. He had no problem putting every aspect of his life on the line in order to be the mayor of New Skye.

Every aspect but one.

Before he could eject Tate from the mayor’s chair, Adam would have to abandon his closest companion of more than two decades.

He would have to learn to speak without the stutter.

CHAPTER ONE

“MR. DEVRIES?”

At the sound of his name, Adam looked up from the news magazine he’d been pretending to read.

Across the waiting room, a woman whose long hair was the color of natural ash wood smiled at him. “Good morning. I’m Phoebe Moss.”

His heart began to pound against his ribs. He put the journal aside and got to his feet, pretending his palms weren’t sweaty, his throat hadn’t closed down completely. The receptionist, a grandmotherly woman with unlikely red hair, smiled at him as he passed by. Though he tried to return the favor, he doubted he’d been successful.

Phoebe Moss looked up at him when he got close—she was almost a foot shorter than he—and tilted her head toward the hallway behind her. “This way, please.”

With every step, Adam’s resistance mounted. He didn’t want to be here, would rather have been just about anywhere else on the planet besides this place, this morning. Walking down the hall felt like pushing against an incoming tide. In the middle of a hurricane.

“Come in and have a seat.” She ushered him into a north-facing office with a couch and an armchair, a desk positioned in the corner between two windows, and an assortment of assessment machines with which Adam was all too familiar, thanks to past experience. His strongest impulse was to run…as far and as fast as he possibly could.

But when Phoebe Moss sat in the chair in front of her desk and turned to face him with a clipboard in her lap, Adam lowered himself into the armchair.

She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up on her nose and settled down to business. “What can I do for you, Mr. DeVries?”

“Y-you’re a s-s-speech th-therapist.” He clenched his fist, hitting it against his leg. Bad enough to be here, without having to explain why.

“Yes.” The word definitely held a question. Waiting for his answer, she wrote briefly on the paper held by the clipboard.

“A-as y-you c-c-can hear, I s-s-stutter.”

Nodding, Phoebe Moss scribbled something else. “Fairly badly.”

“I w-w-want to s-stop.”

Her gaze lifted to his face. “Why?”

This was even worse than he’d expected. “W-why do you think? Talking this w-w-w-way s-s-sucks.”

Another notation. “I understand. Have you tried therapy before?”

He nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Did it work?”

“Obv-v-viously n-n-not.”

“Not even for a brief time?”

Adam shrugged. “If I c-concentrate,” he said, very slowly, “I can g-get th-through short s-sentences. But that’s n-not e-enough.”

“Has something changed in your life to prompt this new attempt?”

He gripped his hands together, studying his thumbs. The answer to her question was straightforward enough. Yet he dreaded her reaction.

When he didn’t answer, she cleared her throat. “What’s changed?”

After staring a little longer at his linked fingers, Adam lifted his gaze to her face again. Her eyes, he saw in that instant, were the dark gray of a stormy ocean.

“I’m going into politics,” he said, using the exaggerated drawl he’d been taught. “I have to be able to talk without stuttering.” He finished the sentence and winced. God, he hated the sound of his voice.

His worry over her response had been justified. Phoebe Moss stared at him, her mouth open in astonishment. “Politics? You’re going to run for office?”

He nodded. “M-m-mayor of N-New Sk-Skye.”

“That’s an ambitious goal for anyone.” Looking down at the paper in her lap, she tapped her pen on the edge of the clipboard for a moment. “When were you thinking about running for office?”

“Th-this y-y-year. I-I’ve al-already f-filed.”

Her startled eyes met his. “Aren’t elections in November?”

“Y-yes. B-but the c-campaign w-w-will s-s-start by L-Labor D-Day.”

“You expect to stop stuttering in less than three months?”

“Y-yes.”

“Mr. DeVries—”

“C-call me Adam.”

“Adam, do you realize how much you’re asking of yourself? Curing a stutter can take many months—years—of practice.”

He shrugged. “I’ll j-just h-have to work hard.”

She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands together, maintaining eye contact. “I can’t make any kind of guarantee on your progress. Not in three months, or six or twelve.”

“I c-can d-do it.”

“Why are you so sure, when the past hasn’t shown success?”

“Th-that w-w-was for…for o-other p-p-people.” Adam took a deep breath. “This time is for m-me.”

“I…SEE.” STUNNED, impressed—and, to be honest, a little scared—by Adam DeVries’s resolve, Phoebe sat back in her desk chair. A glance out the window to her right showed a white pickup truck, with the red-and-blue DeVries Construction logo on the door, parked next to her lime-green Beetle. Now that she thought about it, his company’s signs were posted on building projects all over town.

“You’re obviously a successful businessman.” She gestured toward the truck. “Why worry about the stutter? Let the voters accept you as you are.”

“G-good p-p-point,” he said, without the rancor she’d expected. “B-but I have to be able to make my ideas plain.” For the first time, he smiled. “At a speed g-greater than the average snail’s p-p-pace.” His words were clear—though very, very slow—and his tone was distorted, due to his prolonged speech pattern.

But that smile… Seeing it, Phoebe couldn’t get her breath. The aristocratic planes of his cheeks softened, and his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners as his firm lips stretched wide—Adam DeVries’s smile was like the return of the sun after an eclipse, all the more valuable for being rare.

After a shocked moment, she gathered her wits to speak. “As I said, I can’t make any guarantees.”

“I-I und-derstand.”

“We’ll need several sessions every week.”

“N-no p-problem. C-c-can w-we sc-schedule at n-n-night? I-I can’t s-s-spend so m-many m-mornings away f-from w-w-work.”

Phoebe frowned, not so much at him as at the frantic beating of her heart. What was she thinking? “I-I have responsibilities after work. And I live thirty minutes out of town.”

“Oh.” His dark brows lowered as he considered.

That was when she gave in to a truly crazy impulse. “I could see you at my home in the evening—if you wanted to drive that far.”

Adam thought for another moment, then nodded. “Th-that w-w-would w-work for m-me. Wh-wh-when?” As he had during the whole interview, he clenched his right fist and pounded it on his thigh, as if the motion helped him get the words out.

That gesture would be one of their first points of change, when they began their sessions at her house. Phoebe got to her feet, not really believing she’d agreed to this situation, let alone that she’d suggested it to begin with. “Thursday night? Seven-thirty?”

“S-s-sounds g-good.” He came to her at the desk with his arm extended. “Th-thanks, M-Miss M-M-Moss. I-I’ll see you th-then.”

“C-call me Phoebe,” she said faintly as they shook hands.

For that, Adam gave her another one of those heart-stealing smiles. “O-okay.”

She managed to remain standing as Adam DeVries left her office and headed down the hall toward the reception area. As soon as he was out of sight, she let her shaking knees give way and dropped back into her chair.

What was she thinking, inviting a man she didn’t know to her home? No smart woman acted so carelessly these days.

The DeVries family itself was well-known in New Skye, of course, with a history dating back to before the Civil War. Preston DeVries, Adam’s father, was a respected surgeon at the local hospital, while Cynthia, his mother, worked with the most prominent charity and volunteer groups. Phoebe had moved to North Carolina only a year ago, but she’d seen the DeVries name in the newspaper often enough to be curious. Her friends who’d grown up in town had filled her in on the details, which made Adam less of a stranger, surely. Less of a risk.

Then her first glimpse of him across the waiting room this morning had set her pulse skittering. Tall, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with a workingman’s hands and a poet’s sad, farsighted gaze, Adam DeVries embodied the sum of all her romantic fantasies. His thick, neatly cut brown hair, his smooth, tanned face and strong chin, belonged on a movie poster…or a campaign flyer. How could she say no to a dream come true?

And there was that smile…

Still, had she allowed her physical and emotional reaction to a client to overwhelm her professional good sense?

No, she concluded, I didn’t. The smile hadn’t caused her to bend the rules. Her decision resulted from the moment before the smile. The moment when he’d said, “This time is for me.”

Phoebe knew exactly what he meant. She’d spent years trying to meet the expectations of other people, only to fail time and time again. Not until she’d begun to live for herself had she succeeded in dealing with her own stutter.

She wouldn’t deny Adam DeVries his chance to accomplish the same miracle.

And she wouldn’t consider the notion that he…and she…could possibly fail.

TUESDAY NIGHT, ADAM MET Tommy Crawford in the parking lot outside the Carolina Diner. “Th-thought you w-were g-gonna be l-l-late.”

Tommy shook his hand. “Me, too. My last client decided not to come out in the rainstorm to discuss insurance. These elderly Southern ladies do have certain…peculiarities.”

“D-don’t I kn-know it. T-try b-building a h-house f-f-for one of th-them.” Adam held the door and let Tommy go in ahead of him. “The rain s-slowed us d-down, too. I s-sent most of the c-crews h-home early.” Combined with his late start, that meant not much work got done today.

Tommy turned a hard right and slid into Adam’s usual booth. Just as Adam settled in, Abby Brannon appeared with two glasses of iced tea.

“Hi, guys. Isn’t the rain great?” Abby’s dad, Charlie, owned the Carolina Diner, but everybody in town knew that Abby was the real engine running the place. She flipped to a new page in her order book. “Tonight’s special is porcupine meatballs, and I baked a red velvet cake yesterday. You want to think, or you want to order?”

Since they’d been eating here since they were teenagers, along with most of the other kids who attended nearby New Skye High, neither Adam nor Tommy needed a menu. They both ordered the special. “With green beans,” Tommy said, “and macaroni and cheese.”

“I’ll h-have o-okra and ap-p-ples. L-looks like you’re g-gonna b-be b-busy t-tonight.”

Abby glanced around at the rapidly filling tables and brushed her brown bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Rainy nights tend to bring folks out to eat. Unlike some people,” she said to Adam as she grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Some people eat out every night.”

“S-some p-people don’t c-cook.”

She winked. “You oughta find a nice woman who’ll solve that problem for you.”

He winked back. “I d-d-did.”

Abby rolled her eyes and walked away. Tommy laughed. “So why don’t you marry her and then you wouldn’t have to drive out for breakfast?”

Adam looked at his best friend. “M-me? M-marry Abby?”

“Why not?”

“B-because…” He narrowed his eyes and thought. “There’s always s-something Abby h-holds b-back. You kn-know? Y-you c-can’t qu-quite r-r-reach her.”

“She’s a busy lady.” They watched her bustle from table to table, serving drinks, clearing plates, taking orders. “But she’d be a sweet armful.”

“S-so y-you m-marry her.”

“Yeah, right.” Tommy shook his head. “I’m too much of a wiseass for Abby. Give me a woman with a good suit of armor. That way we won’t kill each other.”

“Campaign meeting, gentlemen?”

Adam looked up to find one of his worst nightmares standing beside the table—Samantha Pettit, reporter for the New Skye News. Surprise made words impossible. He glanced at Tommy.

His friend took over smoothly. “Hey, Sam. How’s it going? Sit down and have a drink.”

“No, thanks. I’m meeting an interview in a few minutes. But I saw you two sitting here and figured you must be planning election strategy.”

Adam had pulled himself together. “Election?”

Samantha flashed him a mocking smile. “I saw you’d filed papers for the mayor’s race, Adam.”

Tommy stepped in. “You just can’t keep a secret in this town. You want the first interview, Sam?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, when we’re up and running, I’ll give you a call.”

“You’re the campaign manager?”

“Who else?”

The reporter nodded. “I’ll remember. Keep me up to date on your schedule.” Behind Adam, the bell on the door jingled. “Gotta go.”

As she walked away, Tommy swore under his breath.

“W-what?”

“Her interview. She just sat down with L. T. LaRue.”

Adam’s gut tightened. “I g-guess they’re t-talking about him w-winning th-that public housing p-project.” The official announcement had only been made Monday, though the grapevine had predicted the city council’s decision several weeks ago. “D-d-dammit, I really w-w-wanted that c-contract for D-DeVries C-Construction. We would have d-d-done a g-g-good j-job for the p-people of this t-town.” He bounced his fist off the Formica tabletop. “LaRue will throw up s-something cheap and let s-somebody else d-deal with the hassle when the p-p-place starts f-f-falling apart.”

Tommy shrugged. “You don’t play footsie with Mayor Tate and the rest of the city council like L.T. does.” He kept an eye on the table across the room. “Don’t take ’em to dinner, pay for their golf rounds. Don’t cut ’em in on your deals, put an extra ten grand or so a year in their pockets. If you won’t play the game, son, I don’t know how you expect to get the prize.”

“J-just s-s-stupid, I g-g-guess. I thought a g-good plan, a low b-b-bid and a reputation for honest d-dealing would b-be worth s-something.”

“Your mistake. Meanwhile, it looks like LaRue and our Brash Female Reporter are having a grand old time together.” Jaw clenched, Tommy glanced down at the napkin he had shredded, then wadded the paper and pushed it to the side.

Adam risked a glance over his shoulder. “N-not for m-much l-longer, if I have anyth-thing to s-say about it. When I g-get elected m-mayor, you c-can damn well be sure th-things are g-gonna change in this t-town.”

His best friend and campaign manager reached over to shake his hand. “I’m with you, buddy. All the way.”

Abby brought their plates, and they allowed good food to distract them from the jerk and the journalist on the other side of the room. Rain fell steadily outside the plate-glass windows and the bell on the door rang almost constantly, until there were only a couple of tables in the diner left empty. Much as he liked Tommy’s company and Abby’s teasing, Adam wished he’d taken fast food home tonight. In a place as small as New Skye, where most people knew him and his family, this kind of crowd almost invariably meant running into somebody who wanted to chat. And Adam really didn’t do chat.

As a prospective candidate, he was realistic enough to admit that running for mayor invited the intrusion of a whole town of people into his life, people who would believe they owned his time and attention. His goal was to clean up New Skye government, and if that was the price he paid, so be it. Let him get the stutter under control and he’d talk all day long.

Tonight, he just wanted to eat in peace.

A hand fell lightly on his shoulder. “Hi, Adam.”

He nearly groaned aloud. Then he looked up from his slice of cake and barely kept his jaw from dropping. Phoebe Moss?

“H-h-hi.” Somehow, he’d never expected to see her out in the real world.

But here she was, smiling at him, and then at Tommy. “This looks like the place to eat tonight. Jenna and I thought we’d have it all to ourselves.” She nodded toward the tall blonde beside her. “This is Jenna Franklin, my business partner. Jenna, Adam DeVries.”

“Hi, Adam.” Jenna smiled as she shook his hand.

“J-J-Jenna, g-good t-to m-m-meet you. Th-this is T-T-Tommy C-Crawford.”

Tommy nodded. “Nice to meet you. Enjoy your dinners—Abby’s cooking is some of the best.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened at the obvious dismissal. Her smile disappeared. “Um…it was good running into you. I’ll see you—” Tommy shook his head, and she stopped for a second, then cleared her throat and glanced quickly at Adam. “I’ll see you around sometime. Enjoy your cake.”

The two women moved away, and Tommy went back to his dessert.

Adam nudged his friend’s plate with the tip of his knife. “Wh-what k-kind of b-brush-off was that?”

Tommy took a bite of deep red cake frosted with buttery icing. “You want to be seen talking to your speech therapist in front of the whole diner? Especially with L. T. LaRue and a reporter for the newspaper just across the room? We picked Phoebe Moss to begin with ’cause she’s new to town, can’t know all that many people. But if you start having dinner together, I can see the headline now—Mayoral Candidate Seeks Therapy Before Election Bid. What a start for the campaign.”

“R-running f-for mayor means b-being r-rude?”

“Winning the mayor’s race means being careful.” Then he shook his head in mock sorrow. “Though I do admit, I hate giving a cold shoulder to women as pretty as those. Just goes against the laws of nature, you know?”

“P-pretty?” Adam had been so tense this morning, Phoebe Moss could have had two heads and he wouldn’t have noticed.

His friend stared back at him. “When’d you go blind?”

Looking around, Adam found Jenna Franklin first, at a table almost directly in his line of sight. Phoebe sat across from her, in profile to his perspective. Studying her now, he found details from this morning coming back to him, characteristics he hadn’t realized he’d noticed. She reminded him of the woman on the cameo brooch he planned to give his mother for her birthday tomorrow, with that wonderful hair drawn back into a knot at the base of her neck, a high forehead and straight nose, a slightly stubborn chin. Her skin was pale and smooth, her mouth soft pink. He remembered, with perfect clarity, her kind gray gaze.

“Y-you g-got it almost r-r-right,” he told Tommy.

“What do you mean?”

“Ph-Phoebe’s not p-p-pretty.”

“Not?”

Adam shook his head. “She’s b-b-beautiful.”

“DeVries!”

He gave Tommy a wry smile. “And r-r-right n-now she’s all that st-stands b-between me and t-total humiliation.”

To himself, he said, “And I hope to hell I can justify her effort.”

AFTER A HARRIED DAY SPENT trying to catch up with the work he’d missed on Tuesday as well as cover Wednesday’s quota, Adam arrived only ten minutes late for his mother’s birthday party at the Vineyard Restaurant.

Named for the grape arbor still maintained in back of the house, the elegant restaurant had only recently been converted by DeVries Construction from one of the town’s older homes. Adam took great satisfaction in the lustrous interior woodwork and, especially, the sliding pocket doors he’d installed to separate the front and rear parlors on both sides of the entry hall. To accommodate the sixty or so people attending tonight’s dinner, the two south parlors had been combined into one large room, where white-draped tables, fresh flowers and a violinist playing classical music set the refined tone that characterized every event his mother planned.

As Adam surveyed the crowd from an unobtrusive position near the bar, his brother clapped him on the shoulder with one hand and offered a glass of whiskey with the other. “I was beginning to wonder if you would show,” Tim said. “You and mom are usually the punctual ones in the family.”

Smooth as silk, a long sip of Maker’s Mark went down Adam’s throat. He lifted the glass in a belated toast. “Here’s t-to architects who ch-change their m-m-minds h-halfway through a p-p-project and then w-want to argue about who…who p-pays the c-cost of st-st-starting over.”

Tim returned the salute with his martini. “And to physicians who believe practicing medicine is a nine-to-five career, making life hell for the rest of us who know the truth.”

They stood with their backs against the wall, nursing their drinks until Tim spoke up again. “I heard on the news that LaRue won the housing project bid. Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well.” Adam shrugged. “He c-can’t w-win all the t-time.” And he won’t, once I get to be mayor.

His brother eyed him sharply, but took Adam’s unspoken hint and changed the subject. “Trust Mother to turn her sixtieth birthday party into a royal reception.” He brushed a hand through his sandy hair, always worn a little long because he forgot to take time off work for a haircut. “You’d think she was the queen of England. Somebody needs to remind her about that little disagreement we had, back in 1776.”

“Sh-she l-looks the p-part.” Tall and graceful, with thick silver hair in waves around her face, Cynthia DeVries had been beautiful all her life, but never more so than tonight. “And she d-does l-love the sp-spotlight. N-n-not to m-mention the g-glory, admiration and p-p-power that g-go w-with it.”

“Hence her involvement in every volunteer organization the town offers since as far back as I can remember. How many hot dog suppers did we eat as kids because dad was at the hospital and mom had a meeting?” Tim drained his drink. “She’s been president so often, she should run for political office. We could be talking about Senator DeVries. Or, hell, even President DeVries.”

Their sister joined them. “I’m afraid I must decline the nomination, being too young—thank God—to accept the office under current constitutional standards.” Theresa clinked her glass against Adam’s. “Good evening, boys. Are we having fun yet?”

“Aren’t we always?” Adam took another sustaining swallow of bourbon as he looked his sister over, from the top of her short, stylish dark hair to the red high-heeled shoes that matched her suit. “You l-look g-great tonight. As always.”

“Thanks, sweetie. You sure do know the right thing to say.” She kissed his cheek, giving him a whiff of expensive perfume, then moved to stand on his right, surveying the candlelit tables and chattering guests. “I am happy to celebrate Mother’s birthday. And a free meal at the town’s best restaurant is an opportunity not to be missed. Your guys did a superior job on the renovation.”

“We d-do our b-best.”

“You would have done a great job with the public housing project, too. I’m sorry to see LaRue get his way again.” Theresa shook her head in disgust. “Makes me ashamed to work for the city, watching people cave in to his bribes and threats.”

“Th-there’s an election c-coming up. M-Maybe th-things will change.” He had yet to tell his family about the campaign. Until his meeting with Phoebe Moss yesterday, he hadn’t known if he could actually go through with therapy. Even though Phoebe hadn’t promised success, she’d made him feel hopeful. The commitment to meet at her home was such a remarkable gesture, Adam felt certain she believed they would succeed.

“Maybe.” Theresa drew a deep breath. “There sure are a lot of people to smile at and talk nonsense with.” Straightening to her full height, as impressive as their mother’s, she tossed back the last of her wine and handed Tim the glass. “I guess I’ll get to work. I just might want these votes one day, when I run for district attorney.”

Tim put her glass next to his own on a nearby tray, then turned back to Adam, arms crossed, one shoulder braced against the wall. While Adam and Theresa resembled their mother and each other, Tim was the spitting image of their dad, right down to his lazy posture, sleepy gaze and slow, genial smile. “Fortunately, I don’t have to solicit votes for my job. When you’re having a heart attack, the cardiologist’s opinions, political or otherwise, don’t matter a damn. Want another drink?”

Before he could accept the offer, the clink of silverware on crystal heralded his dad’s suggestion that everyone find their seats for dinner. Adam checked the seating chart and winced when he found himself trapped between his aunt Diana, who always talked to him with a raised voice as if he couldn’t hear, and his dad. Not the recipe for a relaxing meal.

“I heard on the radio that you lost that public housing contract to LaRue Construction,” Preston DeVries said as their salads arrived. “Couldn’t expect much else, I suppose.”

Adam concentrated all his will on the one word. “No.”

Aunt Diana put a hand on his arm. “Will losing this project ruin your business, dear?” Conversation around the room ebbed as everyone waited for the answer to the question they’d all heard. From a distant table, Theresa sent him a sympathetic frown, but there wasn’t much she could do to help.

Again, Adam made the supreme effort. “Not at all. I’ve g-got p-plenty of work to d-do.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his dad’s grimace. The slightest hesitation in his speech, the smallest repetition or block, was always noticed. And regretted.

Talk resumed in a buzz, but Adam put his fork on the edge of the plate and pushed his salad away. Aunt Diana turned to talk with the person on her right, which was a relief, but when Preston directed all of his attention to the teenage cousin on his other side, Adam understood quite clearly that he’d failed. Again. The folks on the opposite side of the table gently ignored him, no doubt thinking to spare him the shame of having to stutter across the flower arrangement. Some kind of chicken dish arrived, but he barely touched the food. Knowing that he was a disappointment to his father destroyed what little appetite he’d arrived with. The party bubbled around him, but he might as well have been marooned on a desert island. Hell, he might as well not have come to the party at all.

Finally, the tables were cleared for dessert. Getting to his feet, Preston motioned for the cake to be brought in. “Cynthia, honey, happy birthday!” Then he looked at Adam. “Son?”

Adam had been hoping to avoid this particular tradition tonight, with so many people listening. No such luck. But this, at least, he could do right.

He drew a deep breath. “Happy birthday to you,” he sang to his mother, aware of every face in the room turned his way. The words were perfect, the pitch true. The words he couldn’t speak, he could sing. So he sent birthday wishes to his mother in a song.

He’d sung solos in church choir since the age of five, and stuttered since he was eight, but that talent had never influenced his speech, no matter how many years of choral practices he endured. He only hoped Phoebe could change the pattern. In less than three months.

When the verse ended, Preston gestured to the crowd and they all sang another round as Cynthia DeVries smiled and delicately wiped tears from her eyes. More champagne circulated with the servings of cake.

Since his chair faced the doorway, Adam had a chance to watch the arrivals and departures of other diners in the restaurant. About nine-thirty, he looked up from the cake he was moving around his plate to check out the commotion going on in the entry area…and then wished he hadn’t.

L. T. LaRue had come to the Vineyard for dinner. The mayor stood next to him, with an arm around LaRue’s shoulders, every few seconds patting him on the back. They’d come in through the bar in the back of the house, because they already had drinks in their hands. The hostess approached and led them to their seats—not in the rear parlor, of course, but in the front room directly across the hall from the banquet room where Adam sat.

During the next hour, when he wasn’t watching his mother open her gifts and smile at the toasts made in her honor, Adam watched LaRue celebrate “winning” the housing project contract. The word should be “buying,” of course—a fact confirmed by the arrival of several city council members who joined the mayor’s party with every evidence of satisfaction at a deal well made.

Preston DeVries leaned across the corner of the table. “The only way we’re going to get this town cleaned up,” he told Adam, “is to elect a new mayor.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet as guests prepared to take their leave. “I wish to God there was an honest man with the guts to take on that crook and give him a run for his money.”

Adam swallowed hard. After setting an appointment for speech therapy, then actually showing up, this was the hardest moment he’d had to face since the day in the third grade when his dog died. “D-Dad?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve already g-got that m-man.”

“You don’t say? Who is it? I’ll be damn glad to write a check for his campaign, help get those crooks evicted.”

Standing, Adam faced his father eye to eye. “M-make your ch-check out to m-me.”

“You?” Preston’s eyebrows drew together. “I don’t understand.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve already f-f-filed the p-papers. I’m running for m-m-mayor of New Sk-Skye.”

His father stared at him, speechless, for a long moment. “Dear God, son,” he said finally, too loudly. “Surely you’re not serious! You wouldn’t do something that stupid.” His anxious brown gaze searched Adam’s face. “Would you?”

CHAPTER TWO

TOMMY WHISTLED THE THEME song from Goldfinger as he crossed the parking lot on Thursday morning and entered the back door of the small building that housed his insurance agency. He wasn’t a player in this town yet, though his family had been around forever and the Crawford name still meant something—mostly, a long line of men who let money run through their hands like water. But Tommy was going to turn that situation around, with a lot of smarts and a little help from his good buddy Adam DeVries.

He whistled his way to the front of the office, but there the tune died. Only one person sat in the waiting area. Her hair was shiny black, cut short in spiky strands that made her look like an elf…a very sexy elf. She wore a red suit jacket over a black top and a short black skirt that left a long, long stretch of excellent leg bare to his gaze. Tommy had no doubt who and what she was waiting for.

“’Morning, Sam.” He fought to sound casual. “Long time, no see.”

The reporter looked up from her magazine and gave him a wink. “I figured you would expect me to show up sooner or later, and that I might as well make it sooner.” She came to her feet with a wiggle that had Tommy swallowing hard. “Can we talk?”

“Sure thing.” He looked across at the reception desk, where his cousin and sole employee stared at him with her mouth open. “’Morning, Bonnie. Let me know when my first appointment gets here.”

“Your first…?” She might well be confused, since she knew damn well he didn’t have any appointments today. But he lifted an eyebrow and she got the message. “Sure, Tommy. I’ll buzz you.”

He glanced back to Sam Pettit and smiled. “Right this way. Would you like some coffee? Bonnie makes a pretty decent brew.”

“Sounds good.” Her voice was deep, a little rough for a woman, and rubbed shivers over his spine.

“Sugar? Cream?” Tommy prayed the milk in the fridge hadn’t gone sour.

“Black, thanks.”

“That’s easy.” He poured them each a mug and put Sam’s in her red-taloned hand, then led the way to his office across the hall. “Have a seat.” His room was spectacularly neat, which might indicate a genius for organization but only represented, Tommy hated to admit, a lack of business. Shutting the door, he went to the chair behind his desk and sat down. “Now, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Sam eyed him over the rim of her mug as she took a sip, which allowed him to concentrate on her light gray eyes framed by dark, thick lashes. Hypnotic, to say the least. “You know why I’m here, Tommy. Tell me about Adam DeVries.”

“Nice guy. I’ve known him pretty much all our lives. We graduated in the same high school class—1989, New Skye High.”

“And he’s running for mayor.”

“That he is.” Her scent filled the room, a combination of danger and invitation that made his head swim.

“Why?”

Tommy sank back in his chair, letting the mug of coffee warm his palms, the steam fill his nostrils in defense. “I think it’s a little early to put out position papers.”

“But you can tell me what his motivation is.”

“Why do you want to write an article on motivation?”

“Because, from all I can gather, DeVries is different from every other politician in town. Maybe the whole state. He’s a dark horse coming up from behind. I think my readers will be interested in this race.”

“So do I. But the flag hasn’t dropped yet, Sam. We’re announcing Adam’s bid on Labor Day weekend with a big rally. I’ll send you free tickets.”

“The paper will give me tickets.” She leaned forward to put her mug on his desk, and he got a glimpse of the curves of her breasts just underneath the top she wore.

His mouth went dry. A gulp of hot coffee did not help. Sam eased to her feet and adjusted the strap of her purse. “Well, if you’re not going to deliver, then I’ll let you move on with your day.”

Tommy set down his own mug and joined her on the other side of the desk. “You don’t have to pout.”

She grinned and stuck out her red lower lip. “I will if I want to.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that. You’ll do anything you think you can get away with.” They’d met a number of times in the year she’d been in town, and he was always amazed to realize she was shorter than he, even in high heels. Since he wasn’t a big man—only five-seven—that made Sam Pettit, well, petite.

“Damn straight, I will.” She turned in the open doorway and brushed back the spiky black bangs in her eyes. “Remember, Tommy. I never back off.”

Watching her walk down the hall, noting the sway of her hips in that short skirt, Tommy let his mind dwell on situations in which he would be thankful if Sam Pettit never, ever backed off.

“Whew.” He went to pour himself a big glass of ice water, drank it all down, then poured another.

Bonnie came to the door. “Everything okay, Tommy?”

“Everything’s fine, sweetheart.”

“You sure? That woman looked like she could be real trouble.”

Tommy took another long gulp of water. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

So he hoped, anyway.

SAM DROPPED INTO THE driver’s seat of her Mustang, slammed the car door and revved the engine into the red zone before calming down enough to pull out into traffic. She had places to go, people to see who would actually cooperate when she interviewed them. But instead, she drove aimlessly around New Skye for a while, trying to get herself under control.

What did she have to do—proposition the man? Show up in a raincoat, garter belt and stockings and flash him in the reception area? Wouldn’t that sweet little thing at the desk be shocked?

At the thought, Sam’s fury gave way, and she laughed, hard and long. The only other choice was to cry. She’d met Tommy Crawford more than a year ago, at a chamber of commerce luncheon, and she’d been trying to get a date with him ever since. His skeptical, irreverent attitude, his wary eyes, his sidelong smile, had captured her heart from the first moment. She liked his compact build and his sandy hair, his scholar’s slouch and his square, limber hands. She arranged to bump into him as often as possible, had exchanged her ordinary looks for a version of vamp, bought the most expensive perfume New Skye had to offer. Nothing seemed to work. The man remained oblivious. Or indifferent.

She pounded her fist on the wheel. No, that was not possible. He found her funny. He thought she was sexy—after that maneuver in front of the desk, she’d seen his eyes glaze over. For some reason, he simply wasn’t connecting what he felt with the possibility that they could have a relationship. Sam knew Tommy Crawford was a smart man. So why was he missing the point?

Now he would be managing Adam DeVries’s campaign—the worst possible news, as far as Sam was concerned. On the one hand, she’d get plenty of excuses to talk to Tommy. But her job as a reporter demanded objectivity. Even animosity, if that’s what it took to get the facts. She and Tommy would be on opposite sides from Labor Day until the election. He’d be trying to present his candidate in the best light, and she’d be trying to find every single dirty detail to offer the public. Not a recipe for romance, by any stretch of the imagination. If she did enough damage, she might make an enemy of Tommy Crawford for life.

When what she really wanted was simply to marry him and live happily ever after. Was it too much to ask?

On a day like today, with yet one more rejection to her credit, Sam was afraid that the answer to her sad question would be a flat and final “You got that right.”

THURSDAY NIGHT, ADAM followed the directions he’d received from Willa, Phoebe Moss’s receptionist, and headed south out of town into horse country. When he arrived at the last turn fifteen minutes ahead of his appointment, he concluded that Phoebe must drive on the slow side. Or maybe, as his mother had mentioned on more than one occasion, he drove too fast.

No matter what the clock or the speedometer read, though, he hadn’t failed to notice the sign announcing L. T. LaRue’s latest triumph—the farmland he would use to build that low-income housing project for New Skye. Filled with trees and set on a gentle slope, Adam’s site had been nearer to town and a bus route, for the benefit of those who didn’t own a car. If LaRue operated true to form, he would no doubt simply mow down all the pine trees bordering the tobacco fields, pave the flat landscape and put up the most utilitarian building possible.

Shaking off what he couldn’t—for the moment—change, Adam slowed down and turned his truck onto Bower Lane. Pines lined the road on both sides, their high branches casting shadows across the asphalt, making the evening seem almost cool. Behind the trees on the right, a herd of cows grazed a wide pasture, freshly green with yesterday’s rain. On the left, comfortable ranch homes nestled in the piney shade.

Peaceful, pastoral. After a day spent standing in the hot sun on unshaded building sites, arguing with subcontractors and suppliers, Adam could appreciate why Phoebe Moss had chosen to live this far out of town. He’d look forward to coming out here…for any reason besides speech therapy.

The sign for Swallowtail Farm stood about a mile down Bower Lane on the left, just as the receptionist had said. The metal frame gate opened across a gravel drive. Adam followed the meandering track over the dips and rolls of the land to a small brick house. The front porch and windows looked out over the fields he’d just passed, with a barn off to the right in the back. He could see Phoebe coming from the barn and across the grass in front of the house to meet him. To begin the session.

Trying to delay that moment as long as possible, Adam climbed out of his truck and walked to the pasture fence, where a group of horses cropped lazily at the short, wiry grass. The evening air still held the heat of the day and the animals weren’t moving much, but all of them looked up as he approached. Their dark eyes surveyed him with interest for a moment, then the four heads bent to continue grazing.

“What do you think?” Phoebe stepped up beside him. Her head just reached his shoulder, which seemed to ease a little of his tension, for no sensible reason he could think of. She didn’t meet his gaze, which also served to make him less nervous.

“I-I c-can’t d-decide which is the m-most b-b-beautiful.” Talking wasn’t so hard, if he didn’t feel he was being watched, being judged.

“I know what you mean. Cristal, the black filly, is young and spirited, a teenager you envy for her energy. Brady, the bay closest to us, is just an all-around great guy. Really laid-back. Robinhood, the red one—we call it chestnut—is at the height of his power as a male.” She chuckled. “Even though he’s a gelding, Rob thinks he’s hot stuff. And Marian is simply gorgeous. That pale gray coat with the pewter mane and tail is terrific. You should see her gallop across the pasture. Like watching the wind.”

Adam glanced at her and caught the curve of her smile. “H-have you al-always h-had h-h-horses?”

Still without looking at him, she shook her head. “I took lessons, because my parents thought it was the socially correct thing to do. But I never had one of my own until I moved here.”

“The l-life s-suits you.” Phoebe seemed a part of the landscape, as natural an element as her animals. Tonight, her long hair flowed freely, like the manes and tails of the horses, in a complicated range of colors from silver to maple. She wore a dark tank top that showed off muscular arms and a graceful throat, shorts that left her pale legs bare, and some kind of clog shoe that obviously did a great job of shaping the muscles in her calves. Adam was surprised to recognize the flicker of interest stirring inside him, a warmth curling deep in his belly that he could only call desire.

“I couldn’t be happier,” she said in response to his awkward compliment. She glanced behind him. “Do you mind dogs?”

He hesitated too long. “Uh…”

Phoebe’s eyes widened, and she stepped quickly behind him. “Galahad, no! Gawain, Lance, no!”

Adam glanced over his shoulder to see three dogs bounding toward him, a Golden Retriever and two other breeds he wasn’t sure of. As he turned and braced for the assault, Phoebe called, “Down, boys. Down!”

Like magic, the three dogs dropped to the ground, noses resting obediently on front paws, tails wagging wildly. Their eyes were eager and friendly.

“I’m sorry,” Phoebe said breathlessly. “I should have asked you sooner. They wouldn’t hurt you. But they can be too much. Especially if dogs make you nervous.”

“N-no. N-n-not n-nervous.” Though it sure sounded that way. If he tried to explain, she’d send him to a shrink. As his parents had when he was ten. And again at thirteen.

“Let’s go inside and leave these three out.” She opened the door of the screened porch on the end of the house. “You stay,” she told the dogs. “Stay.” The animals stared pitifully at her, tongues hanging long in the heat, but when she motioned Adam inside and then stepped in herself, they stayed on the grass.

Moving across the concrete floor, Phoebe opened the inside door. “Air-conditioning is a gift from God.” She led the way through a darkened laundry room to the bright kitchen. “What can I get you to drink?”

“W-water’s g-g-great.” He looked around with interest. Phoebe kept an old-fashioned kitchen, with natural oak cabinets, a big table with a scarred top, and a couple of pie safes used for storage. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling in front of the window looking over the pasture, and wildflowers filled colorful jars on the windowsill above the sink.

“There you go.” She handed him a tall, thick glass filled with ice cubes and water. “Let’s sit down.” Waving him toward a chair across the table, she pulled one out for herself and sat. “It’s time for us to get to work, right?”

Dealing with the dogs would have been easy, compared to this. Adam took a gulp of water and tried to ignore the twist of fear in his belly. “Whatever you s-s-say.”

OVER THE NEXT THIRTY minutes, Adam’s frustration level climbed steadily. Phoebe had thought she was prepared for the usual first-session difficulties. But somehow she couldn’t remain unaffected by this client’s struggle.

Fifteen minutes before the scheduled end of their session, Phoebe pushed her glasses up on her nose and then set her hands flat on the table. “That’s good. You read the whole paragraph with much softer consonants, and your long vowels are improving. Let’s stop on a high note.”

Adam shook his head. “I-I d-d-didn’t h-hear any imp-p-provement. I-I’ll r-read it a-again.”

She took the card away from him. “No, you won’t. I’m the therapist and I call the shots.”

His mouth tightened even as he clenched his fist and punched the table. “I-I d-don’t h-h-have m-much t-t-t-time.”

Phoebe leaned over and placed both her hands over that rigid fist. “Here’s your first homework assignment.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “H-h-homework?”

“If you want to move fast, you have to practice. Now, listen.” Gently, she massaged his fingers, his wrist, the back of his hand. “You tense up when you speak. You make a fist and use it to get you through blocks. I want you to think about relaxing this hand when you talk.” As she continued to stroke and knead, his grip loosened. “There doesn’t have to be anyone else around. Say whatever comes to mind. Recite poetry, song lyrics, your grocery list. But think about keeping this hand open and soft.” Finally, his palm was revealed, his fingers gently curved. Phoebe laid her palm gently against Adam’s. “Say something to me.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his brows now drawn together, his blue eyes narrowed with effort. His mouth opened and his fingers tensed.

“Relax.” She stroked her fingertips over his.

Again he tried to speak, and again his fingers tightened. Finally, after several more attempts, he managed a sound. “N-n-n…”

Phoebe waited, her palm resting in his.

“N-n-n…n-n-ni…” Adam squeezed his eyes shut and drew a shaking breath. “N-n-ni…n-nice.”

Smiling, Phoebe squeezed his hand with both of hers. “Exactly. You don’t need this hand as much as you think you do. So practice talking without it.”

When she went to withdraw, though, his fingers caught hers. “Th-thanks,” he said quietly, holding her gaze with his own.

Even without the smile, he was a mesmerizing man. She found herself lost in his eyes, all too aware of his skin touching hers. Suddenly, the air conditioner didn’t seem to be doing a very good job of cooling the house.

The loud chime of the clock in the other room woke Phoebe from her trance. “Nine o’clock—you’ve definitely worked long enough for one day.” She pulled her hands from his, got clumsily to her feet and took their water glasses to the sink. “Construction starts very early in the summer, doesn’t it? Because of the heat?”

“S-sure does.” He crossed the kitchen on the way to the screened porch. “I-I’ll b-be at w-work b-by s-six.”

“And you have such a long drive back to town.” She followed him to the porch door, where Gally, Gawain and Lance waited patiently. “Um…let me take them to the barn. I’ll be right back.”

He held up a hand. “D-don’t. I j-just haven’t sp-spent any time w-w-with d-dogs for y-y-years. It’s ok-k-kay.”

Whether by instinct or intelligence, Gally, Gawain and Lance stayed still as Adam stepped outside. He didn’t try to pet them, didn’t even look at them as he walked by.

“Stay,” Phoebe told them, as a precaution. Then she caught up with Adam on the driveway. “Are you sure this is a good time? I’m still building my practice, and I have open appointments almost any hour of the day.”

The night was very warm, with a high humidity that carried a thousand different scents—grass and horses, the wild magnolias blooming in the woods, the roses she’d planted near the barn, and an indefinable accent that simply said “country.”

Adam took his keys out of his jeans pocket. “N-no. I-if it w-w-works f-for you, I-I l-l-like this arrangement.”

“Okay, then.” Above them, stars had begun to pop out in a not-quite-dark sky. “I’ll see you Monday? Same time?”

He looked across the pasture, and then his gaze returned to her face. “W-would I-I-I m-make m-more pr-progress if I-I c-came t-t-tomorrow, t-t-too?”

Her heart began to flutter. “I…well, I think you would. There are s-some intensive p-programs that go for f-five s-straight d-days. We c-could try.” The thought of seeing him again so soon had started her own stutter acting up. Phoebe swallowed hard, trying to relax, to recover her self-assurance.

Her effort fell flat in the face of his wonderful smile. “G-good.” He took a deep breath. “Th-this r-r-really is a n-nice p-place. M-makes m-me feel b-better, just b-being here.”

She nodded. “M-me, too.”

“S-smart w-woman.” He gave her a two-fingered salute and headed toward the truck. “S-see you t-tomorrow night.”

“Adam?” He turned back, brows lifted in question. “W-would you chain the g-gate closed when you g-get outside?”

His white teeth flashed in the dark. “N-no p-problem.”

Watching him walk through the twilight, she allowed herself a moment of sheer gratitude for the beauty of a male body. She could imagine the pleasure of running her hands over Adam’s strong, bare back, his tapered waist, his tight rear end. Her breath shortened as she visualized the glory of lying with him on soft sheets, in a dark room with only moonlight as a lamp to light their exploration of each other. Adam would be a wonderful lover, sensitive and considerate, powerful and yet gentle at the same time. His hands would be so warm on her skin….

Phoebe herself was warm by the time the fantasy had run its course. She blushed even hotter when she realized that darkness had fallen completely while she’d stood like a statue, lost in her erotic thoughts.

“Lance, Gally, Gawain? Let’s go, guys. In the house.” She led them inside, made sure their water bowl was filled, then proceeded through her nightly routine, deliberately blocking all thoughts of Adam DeVries from her mind. Tonight was Lance’s turn for a brushing, which she completed while watching a dog show on TV. All three dogs got their teeth cleaned—good-natured Lance and Galahad the cheerful mutt didn’t mind too much, but Gawain, a high-strung Weimaraner, fought her every step of the way, as usual. Finally exhausted, with a day of work ahead, Phoebe had no choice but to go to bed.

In the dark and quiet of a country night, her thoughts refused to be controlled any longer, and she pondered long after the canines had settled into their baskets, after the house cats, Arthur and Merlin, had curled up in their respective corners on the bed.

Her strong sexual attraction to Adam wasn’t hard to explain. He was gorgeous, to begin with, and holding the session in her home created an unusual intimacy. She’d never before brought a client to her house, here or in Atlanta.

But she had worked with many handsome men, as colleagues and as patients. Dates hadn’t been rare in her life, until she moved to New Skye precisely to escape the social-climbing, influence-seeking connections that passed for relationships in her mother’s world. She hadn’t missed male company in the last year.

And I don’t now. Turning over yet again, punching her pillow and rearranging the covers, Phoebe renewed her resolve.

Yes, Adam DeVries was an attractive man—an attractive man who planned to run for mayor. She did not want a life lived in the public eye. She’d moved from Atlanta expressly to escape that kind of stress. Her personal goals were privacy, peace and self-reliance. With or without a man to share her life.

Maybe if Adam lost the election…

No, she wanted him to win, because he wanted to win badly enough to put himself completely on the line. She admired his dedication to the goal, was proud to think she could help him achieve it.

Over in the corner, Galahad snorted, then started in with his usual gentle snore. She smiled at the sound and tried, again, to relax.

Adam DeVries would never be more than a client. Thinking rationally now, she doubted they could even be close friends.

How could she have any kind of real relationship with a man who didn’t like dogs?

ADAM PARKED AT THE end of his parents’ driveway late Sunday afternoon, took hold of his jacket and climbed out of the truck into the stifling heat. As he shrugged into the coat, his sister’s black Miata slid to a stop just inches from his front fender. Theresa joined him on the walk up the drive to the house and asked the critical question of the day.

“Beef or chicken?”

Adam had already given the matter some thought. “I th-think I’m in t-trouble. B-beef.” He noticed his clenched right fist, imagined Phoebe’s soft touch and loosened his fingers.

“What did you do now? Mom hasn’t staged one of these mandatory Sunday dinners for a couple of years at least.”

He glanced sideways at his sister. “N-nothing.” His hand stayed relaxed.

“Except, maybe, decide to run for mayor without telling anybody?”

“Is th-that a c-crime?”

They reached the front door and Theresa pushed the bell. “In this family? What do you think?”

Their father opened the door. “Come in, both of you, come in. Tim just called to say he’ll be late and to go on without him.” Theresa got a hug and Adam a hearty handshake. “Your mother’s putting the finishing touches on the roast. She’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Theresa frowned as they went into the living room. “I should’ve been a doctor,” she muttered under her breath, for Adam’s ears alone. “Tim’s always sleazing out of dinner because of his patients.”

Adam grinned. “L-legal emergencies are k-kinda r-rare.”

“Maybe we could start having court sessions on the weekends.”

Their mother emerged from the kitchen. “Honey, how are you?” She hugged her daughter, stroking a hand over Theresa’s hair. “Have you had a hectic week?”

Adam found himself thinking of Phoebe, how the different colors of her long, wavy mane blew through and over one another as she stood with the horses in the pasture. He wondered if that amazing hair felt as soft as it looked.

“Son, I’m glad to see you.” His mother offered him an embrace, a good deal more restrained than Theresa’s. “Dinner is ready. Let’s sit down.”

The formal dining room, with its elegantly carved wainscoting, crown molding and woodwork, had inspired Adam’s own building efforts. But the antique mahogany table and his assigned chair—immediately to his father’s right—had been the setting for some of the most painful moments in his life.

He took his seat and dragged in a deep breath, glanced down and found his hand clenched on his thigh again. Phoebe’s voice came to him. Relax.

Adam tried. “S-smells g-great, M-Mother.”

Cynthia smiled. “Thank you. Your great-grandmother’s recipe for roast never fails.” She looked down the length of the table to her husband at the other end. “Shall we say grace?”

The four of them bowed their heads as his dad prayed. Then there was all the passing of dishes and carving of meat to occupy their attention, but Adam knew his moment was coming. His mother arranged her battle plans with the efficiency of a four-star general.

Sure enough, she attacked halfway through the meal. “Adam, the news you gave your father Wednesday night was surprising, to say the least. You filed papers with the board of elections to run for mayor of New Skye?”

He settled for one clear word. “Yes.”

“You didn’t think this was a matter for discussion with your family?”

That answer called for more than one word. “I’m s-still p-planning, M-Mother. I w-wanted t-to w-wait until the s-s-situation was s-set.” He was clenching his fist again, dammit.

“Your father says he suggested you reconsider. Have you?”

“N-no.”

Cynthia gazed at him, then set her fork down and folded her hands together on the edge of the table. “Adam, dear, as your family, we are patient with your…difficulty. We love you and we understand. But how can you campaign for public office? What chance do you have of actually winning? You’ll never be understood, or even listened to. As mayor, you would have many ceremonial public duties. How could you possibly execute those responsibilities, given your…challenges?”

In his head, Adam heard a line from an old TV commercial. He said the words almost in unison with the memory. “We th-thank you for your support.”

“I think we have fully supported you in your endeavors. Your father loaned you the money to start your business—”

Preston held up a hand. “Which the boy has paid back. With interest.”

His wife nodded. “Of course. I’m only concerned about the reception you’ll receive from the public, Adam. Crowds can be most unkind. I hate to see you exposing yourself to that kind of ridicule when it’s not necessary.”

“I-I think i-it i-is n-n-necess-sary.” Adam loosened his fist yet again. “D-Dad and I talked about this at your b-b-birthday d-d-dinner. This town n-needs honest l-leaders. I’m tired of c-c-corrupt g-government. S-since I’m the one w-with the c-complaint, I’m the one d-d-doing s-someth-thing about it.” By the end of the speech, his fist was pounding against his thigh. He uncurled his fingers enough to pick up his napkin and place it on the table. “Excuse m-me, p-p-please. I have to g-go n-n-now.”

The other three stood as he got to his feet. Preston put a hand on his arm. “Son, don’t leave mad. Let’s talk this over.”

“Sit down, Adam,” his mother commanded. “We haven’t finished talking. I have not given you permission to leave.”

But whatever his failings, he wasn’t a little boy anymore and he didn’t take orders, even from his mother. Adam shook his head and left the dining room. Theresa followed. “You can’t leave me here alone with them,” she whispered in his ear. “Mother will start on why I’m not married.”

With the front door open, he turned back and gave her a sympathetic smile. “N-nobody’s p-p-perfect.” He leaned close and kissed her cheek. “G-good luck.”

“Jerk.” But she grinned as she said it.

By the time he reached the truck, he’d taken off his jacket and tie and rolled back his shirtsleeves. Without thinking too much about the decision, he put the engine in gear, abandoned the perfectly groomed neighborhood he’d grown up in and headed south. To Swallowtail Farm.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SOUND OF A VEHICLE coming up her gravel driveway startled Phoebe, since the only guests she expected were already here. When she recognized Adam’s truck, she was doubly surprised.

They’d had another intense session Friday night, with Adam getting increasingly frustrated over what he perceived as a lack of progress. She’d battled her own frustration, as well, trying to maintain complete objectivity when it would be so terribly easy to step over the line between therapist and friend.

Or more. In fact, she’d been wondering if she should recommend that he see Jenna instead of herself for therapy. Happily married and the mother of a new baby, Jenna wouldn’t be so sensitive to her client’s every reaction.

Adam got out of the truck, and Phoebe met him halfway between the drive and the riding ring. The dogs stayed behind, in the shade of an apple tree, instead of following her as they usually would. They knew they would not be wanted.

“S-sorry t-to j-just d-d-drop in,” Adam said, before she could even say hello. “I-I-I d-d-didn’t r-realize y-you had c-c-company unt-til I-I’d almost r-reached th-the h-house.” His face was tight, his fist clenched.

“I’m glad to see you, whether I have company or not.” Taking a risk, Phoebe put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “We’re just having fun with the horses. Come watch.” She caught his right fist with her left hand and led him toward the ring, hoping the physical contact would help him relax. Or so she told herself.

As they got close, Dixon Bell eased Cristal to a halt in front of them. “Hey, DeVries, what brings you out? Good to see you.” He leaned down and reached out to shake Adam’s hand, which Phoebe reluctantly let go.

“You t-two kn-know each other?” Adam glanced at her in question.

“Cristal and Brady belong to Dixon. He boards them with me and comes out to ride most weekends.” She looked from one man to the other. “Now it’s my turn to ask…y’all are friends?”

“Went to high school together,” Dixon explained, soothing Cristal as she protested having to stand still. “And every grade before that, come to think of it. Kate, too,” he said, referring to his fiancé, who was bringing Brady slowly around the ring toward them. “DeVries and I play basketball together Saturday mornings with some of the other guys from our class.”

“I g-give him s-some help remodeling his house f-f-from time to time. And p-plan to d-dance at his w-wedding.” Adam nodded at Dixon. “F-from th-the way you handle th-that h-horse, I’d say you’ve sp-spent s-some t-time in th-the saddle in your day.” His stutter had diminished a bit as he became more relaxed.

Dixon grinned. “An hour here and there.” He had, Phoebe knew from Kate, worked on a ranch out west for a number of years before coming back home to New Skye.

Kate brought Brady to a stop nearby. “Hi, Adam, how are you? I’d lean down for a kiss, but I’m not sure my balance is that good.”

He gave her his wonderful smile. “I’ll take a rain check. Sh-show m-me what y-you can d-do.”

For another thirty minutes or so, Phoebe and Adam stood at the fence to watch Kate and Dixon work. To be accurate, Adam watched the riders and Phoebe divided her time between the horses and the man at her side. He was now more at ease than she’d ever seen him, which meant he felt very comfortable with Dixon and Kate.

And me? Phoebe wondered, wishing she didn’t care quite so much. What trauma had brought him this far out of town on a Sunday evening? Why in the world had he come to her, of all people?

She kept her questions to herself and the four of them chatted as Dixon and Kate untacked and cooled down their horses. The men brought flakes of alfalfa hay and buckets of grain rations to the pasture while Kate and Phoebe leaned on the fence to talk.

“New Skye can be a very small world,” Kate said, watching Adam dump grain into the different feed dishes. “How did you meet Adam?”

Phoebe hesitated. Did he want even his good friends to know he was undergoing speech therapy?

Kate was quick enough to spare her the choice. “Ah…I understand. Never mind. I didn’t ask. I’m glad to see him out here, though. He works too hard and spends too much time alone. I think you and your farm could be really good for Adam.” Kate belonged to another of New Skye’s prominent families, the Bowdreys. The Bells held a similar position, and Dixon was also related to the Crawfords, including Tommy, who was a cousin. Kate had explained some of the connections to Phoebe, along with tidbits about the DeVries clan.

“He does seem to relax when he comes out.” She felt better, having Kate’s approval. “Would you and Dixon mind if I invited him to join us for dinner?”

Kate laughed. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

When asked, Adam tried to beg off, of course. “I-I d-don’t want to intr-trude.”

Dixon threw an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, right. We’re all just putting up with you to be polite. And your punishment is rabbit food.”

Adam looked at Phoebe. “R-rabbit food?”

“Phoebe’s a vegetarian,” Kate said, with a severe frown in her fiancé’s direction. “This is the one meal in a week I can convince Dixon to forgo meat.”

“And, man, it’s tough. But Phoebe fixes pretty good rabbit food, so I manage to make it all the way back to town before I need a burger.”

Phoebe punched Dixon in the side as she stalked toward the house. “You’ll eat those words. I guarantee it.”

“No way.”

“Want to bet?”

“Sure. What’re the stakes?”

“If you aren’t stuffed to the gills after this dinner, I’ll grill you a two-pound steak next time you’re out here.”

Dixon grinned. “And if I am?”

“You have to sing for me after dessert.”

He pretended to consider. “Mighty high stakes there, ma’am. But you’re on.”

As they sat on the screened porch after the meal, with a warm breeze occasionally tilting the flames of the candles on the table, Dixon groaned. “I give in, Phoebe. You win. I didn’t know jambalaya could taste so good without meat.”

She stuck her tongue out at him even as she reached to the floor beside her chair and handed him the guitar waiting there. “Told you so. Now, pay up.”

Dixon looked over to Adam. “What’ll it be?”

“It’s n-not m-my b-bet.”

“Aw, come on, help me out here. How about ‘Crazy’?”

Adam sighed and shook his head. “G-give m-me an intro.”

Phoebe looked from one man to the other, not sure what was happening. Dixon played a jazzy set of chords, and Adam sat forward. The next thing she knew, Adam’s voice eased into the twilight, crooning the old country song in a smooth, stutter-free baritone. Adam DeVries could sing. Boy, could he sing. She felt like a puddle of melted chocolate by the time he’d reached the final phrase.

Between them, the guys produced an amazing reel of tunes, from romantic to rowdy, while she sat and marveled at their combined talent. “You two are incredible,” she said when the music came to an end. “I had no idea either of you was this good.”

Adam shrugged and Dixon grinned. “Just a couple of good ol’ boys, pickin’ and hummin’.”

“Right.” Dixon wrote songs for a living, among them some of the most popular recordings on the charts. “Can I make a request?”

“Do we know it?”

“Doesn’t everybody? I’d like to hear ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry.’”

Dixon started the chords, but Adam stirred in his chair. “That’s a s-s-sad one.”

Kate leaned forward to put her hand on his. “I’ve never heard you sing it. Please?”

With a tilt of his head, Adam gave in. On this song, Dixon joined in with harmony. Phoebe felt tears gather, and fall, as the two men sang the day into night with Hank Williams’s poignant words.

A long silence followed the final notes. Finally, Phoebe wiped her eyes. There weren’t words to describe how she felt. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” With a squeeze of Kate’s fingers, Dixon propped his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “The kids will be home in about an hour, so I guess we’d better get there to meet them.” Kate’s children had spent the weekend with her ex-husband and their father, L. T. LaRue.

Adam stood, as well, evidently prepared to take his own leave. Phoebe smothered her disappointment. She’d been hoping he would stay for a while and give her a chance to ask what had been bothering him when he arrived.

By luck or by his intent, Adam did stay to see Dixon and Kate drive away and only then turned to her with his own goodbye. “I-it’s b-been n-nice. Th-thanks for letting m-me stay.”

“You’re more than welcome. I wondered what h-had upset you. Why you c-came out.” Her tension was bringing back her own stutter.

Adam didn’t seem to notice. He shoved his fists into his pockets and looked away. “W-went to d-d-dinner at m-my p-p-parents’, who are p-p-pissed that I didn’t t-talk the c-campaign over with them f-first. They implied I was s-sure to lose, and I g-got p-pissed, too.”

Phoebe kept her indignation to herself. “I would think so. There’s no reason you can’t win this election.”

“M-my d-d-difficulty, as m-my m-m-mother calls it, w-will g-get in the way.”

“So we’ll work on that. I think you can do it.” Phoebe put her hand on his bare wrist, desperately trying to ignore the warmth of his tanned skin against her palm.

Adam brought his hand to her cheek. “Wh-when I’m out h-here, s-so d-do I. I g-guess that’s why I came. You help me believe.” He gazed at her for a long moment, and his touch lightened, as if he were about to step away. Suddenly, though, he tilted her face up with his palm and gave her a smile. “You’re s-something sp-special, Phoebe Moss.”

He was going to kiss her. That would be heaven…and a complete disaster.

She backed away from him, turning toward the pasture as if the horses had made a noise she had to check out. “The singing…you know, quite a large percentage of people who stutter can sing clearly.”

“That’s what I’ve read.”

“You could use that as you practice—sing the words instead of saying them, gradually working to decrease the tune and simply talk.” Keeping her own words clear was a challenge tonight—she felt herself falling into the stutter. Eyes on the horses, Phoebe focused on staying relaxed.

“I’ll work on that.”

“So you’ll be here T-Tuesday night? Seven-thirty?” Still, she didn’t look at him.

After a long silence, Adam cleared his throat. “C-count on it. I-I’ll l-lock the g-gate.” His footsteps crunched on the gravel drive, his truck door squeaked open and slammed shut.

At that sound, she felt safe to look over, and she watched until his taillights disappeared in the dark.

ADAM FIGURED PHOEBE WOULD have finished dinner when he arrived Tuesday evening, so he stopped by the Carolina Diner for something to eat before driving out of town. Unlike last week, business was slow, and Abby came out right away with his iced tea.

“F-fried ch-chicken,” he told her. “I’m f-feeling tr-traditional t-tonight. With m-mashed potatoes and gr-green beans.”

“The perfect Southern dinner,” she agreed. “You want white and dark meat, right?”

“R-right.”

She nodded and made a note on her pad, then leaned her hip against the opposite side of the booth. “I hadn’t heard until today that you’d decided to run for mayor.”

“Y-you m-must’ve been the l-last one to find out.”

Her brown eyes crinkled as she laughed. “Not easy keeping secrets in this town. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you. We could use somebody with a sense of decency running New Skye for a change.” A car door slammed outside and she glanced through the window. “Damn. Speak of the devil. I’ll get your meal. You—” she poked a finger into his shoulder “—stay out of trouble.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant until L. T. LaRue’s hearty voice carried through the door. “Yessirree, got the steel on its way and the ’dozers headed out there tomorrow morning. I’m getting this show on the road.”

The doorbell jingled and several people walked in. Seated with his back to the door, Adam didn’t turn around. With any luck, LaRue and his friends would sit over on the far side of the diner, and he could ignore the fact they’d ever been here.

LaRue, however, was not a man to leave well enough alone. While the rest of the group sat down, L.T. appeared beside Adam’s table. “Well, well, if it isn’t our fledgling candidate. Eating by yourself, DeVries? That’s no way to win an election.”

Adam relaxed his right hand. “I-I’m n-not p-planning to f-feed the whole t-town t-to get e-e-elected.”

LaRue crossed his arms and propped his hip against the same place Abby had. “That so? And just how are you planning to get elected?”

“B-by g-giving the v-v-voters an h-honest candidate and the opportunity to ch-choose a m-mayor who w-won’t use his office to m-make m-money. I’ll offer them a m-mayor who d-doesn’t take kickbacks for st-steering city b-business to his f-f-friends.”

“You think that’s what they want?”

“I-I do.”

The other man shook his head. “I think what the voters want is a mayor who can deliver—deliver goods, deliver services, deliver the kind of life they expect to live in this town.” He slapped his hand against Adam’s table as he straightened up. “Not to mention deliver a speech they have half a prayer of understanding. Enjoy your dinner, DeVries.”

Whoever had come in with L.T. enjoyed the joke. They were still laughing when Charlie Brannon rounded the counter at the front of the diner with Adam’s plate in one beefy hand. The ex-marine set the meal on the table and gave Adam’s shoulder a squeeze. He stopped for a second at the door, then made his way with his habitual limp to the table on the other side of the room. The group quieted down in preparation for placing their orders.

“I’ll have—” L.T. started.

“Sorry, folks. We’re closed.” Charlie’s tone was polite, even casual.

“What do you mean? It’s barely six o’clock. You can’t be closed.” Adam didn’t turn to watch, but he heard L.T.’s indignation.

“It’s my place, I can close any damn time I want to.”

“What’s the problem, Charlie?” L.T.’s voice took on a wheedling tone. “We came in for some of your good home-style cooking. Just like DeVries over there.”

“If you had half the brains or the manners of the man over there, I’d be serving you dinner. But you don’t, and I’m not. We’re closed until further notice. You want something to eat tonight, you’ll get it someplace else.”

Adam could hear the group shuffle to their feet, hear them muttering as they headed out the door. Just behind him, L.T. made his last stand. “You’ll regret this, Brannon. I’ve got friends in the inspection department. I’m gonna bring them down on you like a plague of locusts.”

Charlie let loose with his booming laugh. “You think you’re the only guy with friends in this town? The only one with influence? You try putting me out of business, LaRue, and I’ll have your butt on hot bricks so fast you’ll wish you’d never opened your mouth. Now get out. We’re closed.”

LaRue slammed the door behind him. Charlie caught the bell to stop the noise and drew the blinds against the Closed sign. Then he returned to Adam’s table. “You better eat before it gets cold.”

“Th-thanks, Ch-Charlie. B-but I h-hate you t-t-to l-lose business b-b-because of me.”

“I won’t.” He grinned. “We’ll open up again in a little while. I just wanted LaRue off the property. He’s always been scum and I put up with it for Kate’s sake. She’s doing good now, so I’m thinking I don’t have to tolerate that jerk anymore.” Turning, he headed back toward the kitchen. “Abby baked coconut cream pie last night. I’ll bring you a piece.”

Adam didn’t protest. Instead, he finished the plate of chicken and vegetables, asked for seconds on rolls and enjoyed every bite of his pie. Once he announced his campaign, he’d have to get used to being accosted in public places, by supporters and opponents alike. He’d always kept a low profile, stayed in the background even when his family received attention for some charity event of his mother’s or a hospital function concerning his dad. Now he’d called down the spotlight on himself. His stuttering had better improve, and fast. Or he would, as his mother predicted, look like a fool.

Heading out to Phoebe’s, he wondered—as he had since it happened—whether he should apologize for that almost-kiss or just ignore the incident altogether. The impulse had felt right at the time, but almost immediately he knew he’d been out of line. She was his therapist. He needed her expertise to make his run for mayor a success. His impulse to take refuge at Swallowtail Farm had been a mistake, one he would have to avoid in the future. Neither of them could afford to complicate their relationship with emotions. Or even just simple physical desire.

Easier said than done, though, when she came out of her house barefoot, wearing a light linen dress that skimmed her curves—very nice curves—and left her well-shaped arms bare. Her hair hung in a braid over her shoulder, with curls escaping at her temples and behind her ears. Adam had a sudden vision of a darkened room and himself slowly unlacing that braid, running his fingers through her loosened hair, over the soft skin underneath…

But this was not that kind of therapy.

As he got out of the truck, he noticed the dogs were stationed under the apple tree again, watching his arrival but not coming any closer. Somehow, Phoebe had trained them to stay out of his way. He hated the idea of himself as a person who didn’t like dogs or small children. And that wasn’t the case, anyway—he did like dogs, as a species, and he wasn’t afraid of them. He just didn’t have room for them in his life.

“Good evening,” Phoebe called. “Come on in.”

As he got close, he noticed that her gray eyes were wary, a little distant. Her smile said “professional.” Regret slapped him, then relief. They really did need to keep their interaction strictly business.

The session quickly turned into a disaster. He was too aware of Phoebe’s caution, too aware of his own body language, and so his stutter became impossible to manage. Containing his frustration wound the tension to the breaking point.

“Read this one,” she said, handing over another card of paragraphs specifically composed to twist his tongue.

Adam looked at the words, assessed the preponderance of Bs and flipped the card across the kitchen table. “I d-don’t think s-s-so, thanks.” His chair scraped the wooden floor as he pushed back from the table. “I’m c-calling it a n-night.”

SAM HADN’T INTENDED to put Adam DeVries under surveillance. The situation arose simply by accident. In a town the size of New Skye, you couldn’t get through a day without seeing people you knew—at the grocery store, at the dentist’s office, or at a stoplight somewhere on the streets.

So she wasn’t surprised, late Tuesday afternoon, to find herself sitting behind Adam’s truck as they waited for the light to change. She wasn’t surprised to find herself going in the same direction—he had a building site on the south side of the city and she liked to get fruits and vegetables at a roadside stand nearby.

But Adam drove straight past his project without so much as slowing down. While puzzling over that, Sam missed the turn for the vegetable market. She shrugged and, out of curiosity, followed the truck at a safe distance. The evening ahead promised her a solitary dinner in front of the TV and, if she got really energetic, hours of research on the Internet. A country drive couldn’t hurt.

She might have thought twice if she’d realized how far into the country he was going. The four-lane highway narrowed to two lanes, and still Adam drove on. Just past the new low-income housing project, though, he finally put on his turn signal. Bower Lane. Had he started a new project out here in the boonies?

A mile or so down the narrow little road, the white truck flashed another turn signal. This time he turned onto a private gravel drive, which left Sam grinding her teeth in frustration. Swallowtail Farm, the sign read. What was that? She couldn’t follow him onto someone’s property without a really good excuse. Simple nosiness wouldn’t cut it.

She parked on the shoulder of the road, deciding what her next move should be. Just as she cut the engine, her cell phone rang. Her editor kept Sam on the phone for almost twenty minutes, going over changes for a story scheduled to run in the Saturday paper. All the while, Sam never moved her eyes from that driveway.

After hanging up, she gave in to her curiosity and decided to investigate. Dirt and gravel sifted into her sandals as she slipped down the lane, staying behind the trees that lined it as much as possible. The drive was much longer than she’d imagined it would be, and she hadn’t come dressed for exercise. But a good story would more than pay for dry-cleaning the sweat stains out of her silk blouse.

She came up yet another rise and saw—finally—a house in the distance. Four horses grazed in the pasture in front of the house, watched by a man and a woman standing close together at the fence. Three big dogs lay under a tree nearby.

Dogs. Sam went cold. If they caught her scent, she’d be lucky to get out alive, let alone unseen.

Hesitating a moment longer, she looked back to the couple by the fence…and found them holding hands, staring intently into each other’s eyes. The next moment, she was sure, would bring a kiss. And whether from sheer jealousy or an aversion to voyeurism, Sam wasn’t about to watch.

This could be a real scoop, though. Adam DeVries had a girlfriend out of town. Who was she?

Thinking of sources for that information, Sam turned to go back the way she’d come and promptly turned her ankle over a rock hidden by the grass. She kept her balance, didn’t fall, didn’t say more than “Ow.”

In that instant, all hell broke loose as the three dogs cried out the hunt. Sam heard them come after her, barking, whining, roaring, it seemed, as they streaked down the drive. She ran. They ran faster. She wasn’t sure whether they had a greater distance to go to reach her than she had to reach the gate, but she had a feeling they would all find out.

The front fence came into sight as the dogs rounded the curve just behind her. Sam sprinted, grabbed hold of the heavy steel gate and pulled it closed just as the three hounds arrived within biting distance. Though the dogs could have slipped through the widely spaced bars, they were so excited they didn’t think about it. They circled at the gate, still barking, panting and jumping on one another, while Sam put the chain through the bars and around the wooden post, linking the ends with the open padlock. Throwing a quick glance in each direction to check for oncoming traffic, she dashed across the road and slammed herself into the car. Only then did she dare to breathe.

And only when she’d driven farther along Bower Lane, with no real clue as to where she would end up, did she start thinking about the possibilities for her story. Summer was a slow time for news. A budding romance involving a mayoral candidate was sure to spark some interest.

She thought about Tommy Crawford and his insistence that nothing needed to be said until Labor Day and the official announcement.

“Sorry, Tommy.” Sam drove through the country twilight, grinning at the prospect of a good story. “You’ve got your job to do.

“And—come hell, high water or everlasting love— I’ve got mine.”

ADAM HAD ALMOST REACHED his truck when Phoebe caught up with him and grabbed his arm. He let her stop him, though he could have jerked free easily enough.

“You’re confused about who’s in charge here,” she said. “I’m the therapist. I say when the session ends.”

“Ph-Phoeb-be.” He dropped his chin to his chest for a second. “I c-can’t even s-say your n-name. L-l-let it g-g-go f-f-for to-night.”

She softened her grip. “You c-can’t leave d-def-feated.”

Brows drawn together, he glared at her. “You w-wouldn’t t-t-taunt me. You s-stutter?”

Phoebe nodded, gazing into his face, waiting.

“H-how d-did you st-stop?”

“I d-didn’t, as you c-can hear.” She drew a deep breath. “I’ve l-learned ways to minimize the problem.”

He took her free hand in his. “T-tell me.”

“Breathing, as you’ve practiced. Soft consonants.”

“Th-that’s it?”

“No.” She looked past him to the pasture where the horses swished their tails at flies and bent graceful necks to nip at sprigs of new grass. “I live the life I want, with as little stress as I can arrange. I make my own decisions, regardless of other people’s expectations. I stay calm and happy.”

“C-calm and h-h-happy.”

“Pretty much.” His expression was skeptical. “Stuttering is a response, Adam, a way to deal with some person or event in your life. You used it long enough to form a habit you haven’t been able to break. My job is to help you find ways to break that habit. Those are the ways I found to break mine.”

He tensed, and she waited, hoping he would volunteer the details of when and why he had started stuttering. But the silence stretched, and she accepted that he wasn’t prepared to share his secret.

“So.” Phoebe realized that she still held his arm, as he held her hand. She backed up, letting go with reluctance, feeling his fingers holding on to hers.

And then the dogs went wild. They leapt to their feet and filled the night air with noise—Gally’s frantic barks, Lance’s excited yelps, Gawain’s deep bay. Like hounds of hell, they dashed down the drive.

Adam stared after them. “Will they g-go out th-the g-g-gate?”

“I don’t think s-so.” She crouched to go through the pasture fence, no mean feat in a long narrow skirt. “They never have.”

Adam followed her. “Where are you g-going?”

“This is a shortcut.” The horses had lifted their heads as the dogs went past, then went back to grazing as Phoebe walked by.

“You’re barefoot. And the pasture is…”

She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Grassy. Just watch where you step.”

They reached the front gate to find it closed, the ends of the chain drawn together with the unfastened lock and the dogs barking wildly as they jumped up and down at the barrier.

“None of them seems to have the brains to realize they could go through,” Phoebe said, in between pants.

“S-Somebody has b-b-been h-here.” Adam stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the gate. “I left this open b-b-behind me.”

“They must have closed it between them and the dogs.”

“Why were they h-here? Why not c-c-come in? Or why c-come in at all?”

“This is the country, Adam. I don’t think they meant any harm.”

He didn’t look convinced. He didn’t look too happy, either, as they walked back up the drive with Gawain and Gally and Lance gamboling around them, chasing sticks Phoebe threw.

She really wished he liked her dogs.

Back at the house, Adam took his keys out of his pocket, preparing to leave.

Phoebe tried again. “Do one thing for me before you go.”

“What do you n-need?”

Touching him was a bad idea, so she clasped her hands together. “Come around the truck. That’s right, to the fence.” They stood side by side once again, staring at the horses. “Now, tell me what you see. Slowly, gently, calmly. Describe the scene.”

He opened his mouth.

She held up a finger. “Deep breath, first.”

“Okay.” His shoulders lifted, and he blew out softly. “T-twilight above the trees, p-pink, p-purple, g-gold. P-pines, d-dark green and b-brown, stretching b-between grass and sk-sky. Horses white and b-brown and b-black, colors b-blurring in the gray light, b-beautiful and p-peacef-ful and s-safe.” He looked over at Phoebe. “Are you s-sure you will b-be?”

She had to draw her mind back from his poetic description. “I’ll be fine. You’ll lock the gate again, the dogs and I will go into the house, and everything will be good until morning.” Again, she had to stop herself from touching him. “I promise.”

“Okay.” Adam started toward his truck.

“That was lovely,” she told him as she followed slowly. “You did a good job with your consonants. And the description. That’s what I see when I’m here.”

He looked around again, and then smiled at her for the first time all evening. “Yeah. I’m b-beginning to understand j-just how that therapy of yours w-works.”

“I THINK WE’VE COVERED the agenda. Does anyone have questions or comments?” Cynthia DeVries glanced at each member of the fundraising committee, now assembled in her living room. “If not, then we’ll close. Be sure to have another cup of punch and some more dessert before you leave.”

A collective sigh preceded the polite bustle as most of her listeners returned to the dining room. Cynthia gathered her papers together, rose from her chair and turned to find Kellie Tate, the mayor’s wife, approaching.

“I knew you must be dying for something to drink. I thought I’d bring you some of that delicious punch.” Kellie offered one of the cut-crystal cups she carried and sipped at the other. “Where did this recipe come from?”

“Thank you so much, dear.” As the fruit drink soothed her dry throat, Cynthia felt the tension that had been holding her up through the meeting begin to drain. She hoped everyone would leave soon. “My mother got it from one of her bridesmaids. We served it at my wedding to Preston.”

“Heirloom recipes are the best, aren’t they?”

“That’s quite often true.” Moving nearer the front door, to be on hand when the ladies began to leave, she waited for Kellie to come to her point.

Most of the guests were gone, however, before she stated her business. “You know, Mrs. DeVries, quite a few people were surprised to hear that your son has decided to run for mayor.”

Herself among them. Cynthia called up a thin smile. “I imagine they were.”

“Curtis feels like he’s done his very best for the citizens of New Skye. After running unopposed for four terms, he’s…well, he’s hurt, if you want to know the truth, that Adam wants to challenge his fitness to be mayor.”

“I can see how that would seem like a personal slight.”

“I know you must have a great deal of influence with your sons, Mrs. DeVries. Surely they know how fortunate they are to have such a respected and admired woman as their mother.”

Through sheer willpower, Cynthia managed not to roll her eyes. “Kellie, dear, I’m not sure what you and Curtis think I could do to change Adam’s mind. I can give him my advice, but I can’t force him to resign from the race.” A fact amply demonstrated by his tantrum on Sunday.

“Oh, of course not.” The younger woman waved the idea away. “Curtis was just reflecting on how much the Botanical Gardens means to the city as a whole, and how impressed he is with the idea of the Stargazer Fundraiser. A dinner dance under the stars in the gardens—you were so clever to think of such a wonderful way to raise money.”

She paused to finish her punch, and Cynthia waited for the punch line.

Kellie looked at her over the rim of the cup. “I expect Curtis could find some funding tucked away in the city budget somewhere that would be very helpful to the garden. He might even be able to match the money you raise with the dinner dance. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful gift for the Botanical Gardens?”

“Yes, indeed.” She said goodnight to the remaining committee members and walked into the dining room to set down her cup, relieved to note the housekeeper was beginning to clear the table. Kellie followed, not too obviously anxious, to grab one more lemon square and turn in her punch glass.

Cynthia placed a hand in the small of Kellie’s back and eased her to the front door. “I do appreciate your husband’s generosity and his willingness to assist in keeping the gardens at their very best. I don’t know that I have nearly as much leverage with my son as you believe, but I’ll certainly keep your ideas in mind when I talk to him about this endeavor.”

Standing on the front porch, Kellie turned, her lips parted to make another attempt at persuasion.

“No, dear, really. I do understand.” Cynthia held the door open just wide enough for her face to be seen. “I’ll get back to you on this. I promise. Good night, and drive carefully.” She closed the door, giving the mayor’s wife no choice other than to go away. Finally.

The clock struck eleven before the house was orderly once again and Cynthia felt free to sit down with a glass of dry sherry and slip off her high heels. Kellie Tate had certainly provided her with food for thought. As the current president for the New Skye Botanical Gardens Auxiliary, she would be quite satisfied to leave as her legacy a sizable donation to the organization. She expected the Stargazer Fundraiser to bring in adequate money, but if the city provided a matching donation, then she would, indeed, have done her job well.

To achieve that goal, all she had to do was dissuade Adam from making a fool of himself and his family by continuing his run for the mayor’s office. From earliest childhood, he’d been a stubborn little boy. Sometimes she thought his speech difficulty was just another attempt at defiance.

Rarely, very rarely, had she allowed him to prevail. Descended from a long line of those who’d withstood the assault of British troops, the Yankee invasion, the shame of Reconstruction and the desperation of the Great Depression, Cynthia did not doubt her ability to control her own son.

The DeVries family held an enviable position and enjoyed a sterling reputation in this town, thanks in no small part to her own work in the community. If Adam did not understand his role in maintaining the respect due his mother and father, he could be taught. He must come to his senses and withdraw from the campaign. Or suffer the consequences.

And Cynthia could ensure that there would be consequences.

CHAPTER FOUR

SAM DECIDED TO AMBUSH Tommy Crawford in his office again. Early morning seemed to be his vulnerable time. Besides, she liked seeing him as a way to start off her day.

This time, she brought breakfast. She heard the rear door of the office open and close and then a pause, as if he caught the aroma in the air.

“Bonnie, honey, did you bring doughnuts?” he called from the back. “There will be stars in your crown for that act of goodness.” His footsteps came quickly down the hall. Sam loved how he moved, with a grace and precision that only looked slow. “I stayed up watching the Braves game and slept too late—” He came into the front room and saw her. “For breakfast.”

“Great game, wasn’t it?” Sam got to her feet, holding the familiar green-and-white doughnut box in one hand and a carrier of gourmet coffee in the other. “Could you believe that play in the bottom of the eighth? I thought for sure the Yanks were pulling away with that hit. Instead, the big boys from the South turned it into a double.”

“Amazing. You’re here for breakfast?” He didn’t seem as surprised as she’d hoped.

“Most important meal of the day.”

“Where’s Bonnie?”

“She went to the bank. I told her I’d watch the front door.”

He massaged his jaw with one hand. “Sure, let’s eat. Come on back.”

Sam hoped to confuse him, keep him off balance, because he was such a smart-ass, always knew the score, always got the last word. Sometime, though…sometime she wanted to see him serious, see him thinking, see him caring. About her, the way she cared about him. In a forever kind of way.

If, that is, Adam DeVries and his run for mayor didn’t ruin her chances completely.

They settled in Tommy’s office again with the doughnuts open between them. He chose chocolate-covered cream, as she predicted, and settled back with a groan. “No calories here, of course. No fat. No cholesterol.”

“Just air,” Sam agreed, taking a raspberry-filled bite. She licked jelly and glaze off her lips, savoring the tart sweetness.

Tommy choked, choked again, and went into a fit of coughing. When she would have come round the desk, he held up his hand and shook his head, then staggered out and across the hall to the break room. She heard the water running, and his coughs gradually died.

He returned, red-cheeked and wet-eyed. “Man. That bite went down the wrong pipe.” He sat down again and picked up his coffee with both hands. “So what’s the deal, Sam? Did you come specifically to choke me with a doughnut, or do you have a more sinister purpose?”

“Well…” She leaned back in her chair. “I did want to ask you about Adam DeVries’s new girlfriend.”

His eyebrows rose into the fringe of his hair. “Girlfriend? Not that I know about.”

“Lives out in the country, works in town. Long, silver-streaked hair, drives a green Beetle. Speech therapist?”

“You mean Phoebe?” Tommy gave a one-sided grin and took a sip of coffee. “Girlfriend? Nah. They’re just friends. Longtime buddies.”

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