Texan For the Holidays
Victoria Chancellor

Contents

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

Epilogue

Chapter One

Saturday, December 1, 2007

“California, here I come,” Scarlett shouted out the window of her aging Benz into the Texas prairie. No one was around to hear, but that was okay. Before long, lots of people would know Scarlett, hairstylist to the stars. She rolled up the window, feeling refreshed from the brisk, cool air.

She was making good time, despite the wrong turn she’d taken back in Dallas. And she’d missed Interstate 35W because she’d been surrounded by huge gravel-hauler trucks. Instead of backtracking, Scarlet had continued on. Eventually, Texas Highway 114 would intersect westbound Interstate 40, somewhere in Oklahoma.

Over an hour after missing the interstate, she passed a city sign that said Loving and noted the town had just a few small buildings. “I’m not loving Texas right now,” she said out loud, and laughed at her joke. She turned up the radio and sang along with U2.

Her smile faded when she looked into the rearview mirror to check on an old truck she’d just passed. It was weaving under the weight of about a thousand chicken crates that looked as if they might fall over at any minute.

But the old truck wasn’t the only vehicle with a problem. Black smoke billowed in fat inky spirals from her engine—that noisy diesel combustion thing. She knew just enough about cars to add oil, water and of course, fuel, intermittently. Black smoke could not be good. Not good at all…

She checked the gauges and discovered her engine was red-hot. And her oil gauge needle was not where it was supposed to be. When had that happened?

“Darn it,” she murmured as she slowed the Benz and looked for a place to pull off. Up ahead, she spotted a wide, rocky patch of dry brown grass and prickly pear cactus. She’d let the car cool off, add some water and oil from the stash she never left home without, and get to the next service station.

She shut off the engine, then opened her door. The cold air coming out of the north nearly took her breath away. Just then the old truck chugged by. It slowed, and Scarlett felt a moment of panic. Was it safe to be alone out here? She hadn’t been afraid traveling by herself all the way from Atlanta, and it was broad daylight.

“Need any help?” a raspy voice called to her. A man leaned out the window and Scarlett could see a leathery, stubbled cheek and some missing teeth.

“No, I’m okay.” I hope. Maybe I should pray….

“If you need a ride, I can take you to Brody’s Crossing.”

“Thanks, but my car just needs a rest. I’m adding some oil and we’ll be on our way soon.”

“Could be blown.”

What could be blown? She didn’t even want to think about that statement! “Um…”

“Well, ride’s up to you.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m prepared for this type of situation.” Not that this exact scenario had ever happened before.

“Good luck to you, little gal.”

Scarlett stifled her surprise. Little gal? “Is there a service station in Brody’s Crossing?” So far, she’d only seen modern convenience stores-slash-filling stations.

“McCaskie’s. It’s on the main street. Can’t miss it.”

“Well, thanks again.”

“Sure ’nuff,” he said, before spitting between his missing teeth. “’Course, Claude may not work on these fur-in cars.” Then he put his truck in gear and slowly inched away, crates swaying and chickens squawking.

Fur-in? Oh, he meant foreign. How…quaint. She hoped McCaskie’s wasn’t as predisposed to American-made.

Scarlett let out a sigh. She was all alone with a broken down fur-in car. Oh, well. Worse things could happen.

At least she still had all her teeth.

MCCASKIE’S SERVICE STATION was closed for the afternoon. And things had definitely gotten worse.

Oh, she still had her teeth. And she hadn’t sprouted any facial hair. But her car sat dying beside the road a little more than halfway to Graham, which she’d learned during her ride to town—in a drafty pickup loaded with Christmas trees—was the county seat and the largest town in the area. She huddled out of the wind next to two old-fashioned pumps, wondering what to do now.

Today was Saturday afternoon. Didn’t these people need to drive around, buy gas? The sign on the fingerprint-smudged glass door of McCaskie’s simply indicated the place was closed for the afternoon, and advised people to “have fun.” What the heck?

Brody’s Crossing looked as if it had been designed as a movie set for Holiday Hometown, America, complete with tinsel garlands and peppermint canes swaying from streetlights in the brisk wind. A few temporary traffic barricades stood on the sidewalk.

She hoisted her backpack-style purse onto her shoulder, zipped up her hooded sweatshirt and set off for the central business district, which she figured was maybe two blocks long. Three at the most. She’d seen small towns similar to this when her mother had dragged her around Georgia, antiquing.

Scarlett hated antiquing almost as much as she hated being stranded in a town where service stations closed on Saturday afternoons and sidewalks were barricaded.

In just a minute or two she arrived at Clarissa’s House of Style, an old-fashioned “beauty shop” in a brick-and-frame narrow, long building that might have been a house years ago. A big picture window lined with multicolored lights and silver tinsel gave the shop a cheery glow on the blustery day.

Since she only felt at home when she was in a salon, Scarlett couldn’t wait to enter. The smells of shampoo, conditioner, styling products and even perms. The sight of dramatic hairstyle posters and fashion magazines to stimulate creativity. The subtle chatter of clients and stylists, the intense concentration of manicurists, and even the gentle splash of water in the big basins. She loved it all.

As Scarlett stepped into the House of Style, everyone in the place stopped talking to stare. She focused on the person closest to the door, whose name tag read Clarissa.

“What can I do for you, hon?” The older lady smiled as she lifted her penciled brows. Clarissa was slightly over-weight, well-endowed and middle-aged. Her hair was blond, teased and sprayed into submission. Her most defining characteristic, though, was the traditional pink smock worn by many small-town hairdressers.

Scarlett felt as if she’d walked into every proprietor-owned salon she’d ever seen—and some where she’d worked—in Georgia. Then her smile faded. She didn’t want to revisit her early years. She wanted to go to California, where stylists wouldn’t be caught dead in pink smocks.

“Hi, I’m Scarlett. My car broke down about ten miles away, and I got a ride into town. The service station is closed and I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“Why, today is the Christmas parade, that’s what!” Clarissa answered with a chuckle. “It’s just about the biggest event this side of the prom or…homecoming. We’re fixing hair for all the holiday princesses!”

For the first time, Scarlett really looked at each person in the salon. Sure enough, although there seemed to be only two stylists, all four chairs were filled, with teenage girls. They looked like little clones. Blond or blondish, with updos and tendrils right out of the 1990s.

Yep, she’d stepped into a time warp. “I see.” She sighed and hoped she could talk McCaskie, or someone who knew car repairs, into looking at her Benz, despite the apparent importance of the parade. “I’m not from around here.”

“Oh, we figured that one out right away!” the other stylist said with a chuckle.

Scarlett gave her an insincere smile instead of a snappy comment, and turned back to Clarissa. “Is there another garage where someone might look at my car?”

“No, hon, I’m sorry, but Claude McCaskie is about the only one around. He’s got a tow truck, but he’s using it now over at the high school parking lot. He always pulls the holiday princess float, doesn’t he, Venetia?”

“You bet. Every year,” the other stylist answered.

“Maybe I could go over to the school and see if he could take some time off to tow my car.”

“I’ve never known Claude to miss the Christmas parade. He takes real pride in helping out. He used to be Santa, you see, but lost weight once he was diagnosed with sugar diabetes and started eating that glycemic index food.”

No, Scarlett didn’t see, but she needed loyal Claude and his tow truck. “Is the high school very far?” Maybe she could walk over and talk to him.

“Just about half a mile south on the farm-to-market road. But really, hon, I don’t think he’s going to give up his afternoon. He sure enjoys a good parade.”

“I understand, but my car is sitting out there beside the road, and I don’t have a lot of options.”

Clarissa sighed. “Let me get finished with Shawna’s hair and I’ll make a phone call out to the school. I might get lucky and find someone who could talk to Claude.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Have a seat,” Clarissa said as she finished Shawna’s updo. The girl’s face was too small and thin to pull off that style. She needed something simple, preferably short, with just enough volume to frame her eyes.

Please, God, do not let her near blue, sparkly eye shadow, Scarlett silently prayed.

“If I can’t get my car repaired, is there a motel or hotel where I can get a room?”

“Well, that’s the thing about small towns, hon. They don’t always have a Holiday Inn. The Sweet Dreams Motel closed about the time the first George Bush became president, and no one’s opened another place since then. Mostly, folks stay with relatives or down in Graham.”

“Oh.” That was bad. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Let me think while I finish up with Shawna.” Clarissa grabbed a can of fine mist spray and applied it liberally to poor Shawna’s old-fashioned, too-mature-for-her updo. Shaking her head at her critical thoughts, Scarlett dug in her backpack for her wallet.

As soon as Clarissa put down the spray, Scarlet handed her her Georgia hairdresser’s license. “I didn’t mention it earlier, but I’m a stylist also. I’m just passing through on my way to California.”

“Why, look at that. So you are.” Clarissa smiled and handed the paper back to Scarlett. “I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job, are you, Sa—?”

“Scarlett. I don’t go by that other name,” she said just above a whisper. “No, I’m only passing through.”

“Well, hon, if you wanted to help with some styling this afternoon, I could trade you a place to stay this weekend. Believe me, Claude McCaskie isn’t going to get your car fixed until Monday at the earliest.”

Scarlett looked around the shop and wondered if she’d be forced to create any atrocious updos on other unsuspecting teens. But if she could get a place to stay, it might be worth it.

“I’d offer you my guest bedroom, but I live out in the country, and since you don’t have a car, that wouldn’t be practical. At the salon, you’d be almost across the street from Claude’s garage. This building had an apartment in the back many years ago, so there’s a full bathroom, and we have a sofa sleeper in the back room. There’s a café and a burger place nearby.”

“Sounds good. Do you have more appointments this afternoon?”

“Hon, we’ve got four more coming in and I’m about dead on my feet. Venetia is probably worn to a nub, too, aren’t you, Venetia? We had a part-time stylist, but she up and moved to Dallas with her boyfriend. We could use some help.”

“If you’ll try to get in touch with Mr. McCaskie, I’ll be glad to help out. If on the off chance he can get my car fixed, I’ll head out later. Either way, I should be able to handle at least two clients.”

“That’s real good news.” Clarissa swept the vinyl cape off the teen. “You’re all finished. I’ll ring you up, Shawna, and then I’ll make the call out to the school.”

Scarlett smiled. “That would be great. Thank you, Clarissa.” She was glad to trade a few shampoos, sets and styles for a place to stay—if she got stuck in Brody’s Crossing for a couple of nights.

Come Monday, though, she was having her car repaired and getting back on the road to L.A.—come hell, high water or Christmas parades.

LATER THAT DAY, Scarlett stood on the front steps of Clarissa’s House of Style and watched the Brody’s Crossing Christmas parade pass by. So far she’d seen little girls in red tights and sequined leotards twirling their batons; cute little cowboys leading saddled pinto ponies; the high school marching band belting out a stirring rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen”; and a beautiful vintage Thunderbird with the mayor of Brody’s Crossing, a surprisingly young, pretty blonde who waved like a beauty queen. She’d probably been a holiday princess a few years back, Scarlett theorized as she huddled in her hoodie.

And now, the holiday princess float came into view, pulled by a man in a Santa suit driving the McCaskie’s Service Station tow truck. That must be Claude, former Santa and absent mechanic. Darn him for being so civic minded. Her poor car was dead and Claude didn’t care.

Scarlett shook her head to clear the negative thoughts. The float appeared to be a flatbed trailer of some type wrapped in white paper and fluffy imitation snow. Blue snowflakes and hand-painted candies adorned the sides. Above, the princesses waved and smiled to the crowd lining the street, their fake-fur-trimmed white dresses blowing in the breeze. There was even a hint of sparkly blue eyeshadow.

Scarlett smiled and waved at Ashley Desmond, whose hair she’d worked on this afternoon. She looked wonderful in her loosely twisted curls. Ashley smiled back, and Scarlett hugged her arms around herself, pleased that although she was stranded in middle America, she’d made a small difference today.

At least Ashley appeared age-appropriate, in a style suited for her face and stature. She had her own “look,” which was just about the most important asset a teenage girl could possess. After all, not everyone was the same, inside and out.

Scarlett wished her parents and siblings understood her point of view, but they thought everyone should be satisfied to model their virtues—namely, success, stability and respectability.

Well, she didn’t want to be a banker or a doctor or a lawyer, then marry well, produce two or three children on a timetable, and live in the suburbs. She wanted to see the world, meet interesting individuals and be appreciated for her talent with hair.

As the holiday princess float moved slowly down the street, Scarlett hoped the teenager would pursue her own dreams, wherever they led her. Even if you sometimes landed halfway to where you were going.

ON SUNDAY AFTERNOON, after Scarlett had slept as long as possible on the slightly lumpy sofa bed in the back room of the salon, Clarissa surprised her. The cheerful blonde bustled into the shop, bringing some cold wind and a whiff of the season. Someone must be cutting evergreen branches, Scarlett thought, as Clarissa placed her purse on the counter.

“I’m going to the drugstore down in Graham, so I thought I’d see if you wanted to get out.”

“I might need some things, depending on how long I’m going to be here.”

“I imagine it’s going to be a few days, and I don’t mind saying, I’m glad. I’m really happy for your help, Scarlett.”

A feeling of warmth flowed through her, but then reality hit. Scarlett didn’t want to feel wanted here in Texas. That was the whole point of leaving Georgia—she needed to get to L.A. She’d come to the realization that even if Claude towed her car later today, it wouldn’t be fixed immediately.

“Let me get my shoes on and fluff my hair, and I’ll be ready to go.”

Clarissa drove them to Graham, where they shopped at a chain drugstore. Graham was quite a bit larger than Brody’s Crossing.

“Why don’t you come to the community center with me?” Clarissa asked as they drove back to town. “We’re putting together some gift bags for the children’s Christmas party next Saturday.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“We’d love the help.”

Scarlett didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the trade-off of the free room and even the trip to the store, but she didn’t want to get pulled into the activities of the town, even if the idea of spending time with other people was far more appealing than sitting alone. Today it would be gift baskets, then tomorrow something else, until she was committed to serving as Santa’s elf on Christmas Eve!

“I really appreciate it, Clarissa, but I’ll pass. I…I won’t be here long enough to get involved.”

Clarissa seemed surprised, glancing away from the road just a moment. Then she said, “Well, if you don’t want to, that’s okay. I just thought you might rather be over there than all by yourself.”

“I’ll catch up on my reading. And if you need anything done at the shop—inventory, cleaning, stocking—just let me know.”

“Oh, we’re fine. If you change your mind, the community center is just two blocks away. Ask anyone for directions.”

“Sure.” But Scarlett knew she wasn’t going to the center on Sunday afternoon. Doing hair was one thing, but packing gift baskets was way too friendly for someone just passing through.

“I WANT TO SUE THAT NEW hairdresser at Clarissa’s House of Style,” the voice coming from the reception area insisted. “That red-haired, young, weird-looking one that just got into town.” The rather unpleasant, strident tones were directed at James’s mother, who worked part-time as his receptionist.

“What happened, Delores? I didn’t know Clarissa had hired a new hairdresser,” James heard his mother ask.

“She’s a menace! This was the first time Ashley was a holiday princess, and her parade was ruined!”

“Ruined? That’s just terrible.”

Don’t encourage her, Mom, James thought as he pushed away from his desk and walked toward the reception area. His mother was too sympathetic to be a good screener, but she had a big heart and people did trust her. The problem was that a few of the citizens of Brody’s Crossing had become a bit lawsuit crazy since he’d moved his practice back home last year.

Especially whenever one of the television network “in-depth” reports featured some evil-doing, money-hungry, corporate giant who was out to get the little guy. Last week Myra Hammer had wanted to sue the grocery for selling her bruised bananas. The week before, Sam Gibson had insisted that he should sue the used car dealer in Graham because the pickup he’d just bought had a blowout, so obviously the tire was defective.

The citizens of Brody’s Crossing did not need encouragement in the lawsuit department.

“Hello, Mrs. Desmond.” Demanding Desmond. That’s what everyone called her behind her back. Not him, but he’d heard waitresses, clerks and other workers complain. So far, though, no one had tried to sue her for unreasonable demands or poor tips. “What’s the problem?”

“As I was telling your mother, that new red-haired hairdresser at Clarissa’s ruined my daughter’s hair for the holiday princess float and lunch at the community center.”

“When you say ruined, do you mean permanently?”

“No! But you know how important the parade is. All the girls wear upsweeps with those little rhinestone clips, and they do their makeup to match. Why, they all look so pretty up there on the float.”

James sighed. He remembered how his high school girlfriend, Jennifer Hopkins, had been a holiday princess. She was married now with two children and he…wasn’t. “Do you have photos or any other proof?”

“I certainly do! They’re all right here, in that disposable digital camera I bought at the CVS in Graham.”

“Why don’t we wait until you get those photos developed, then we can talk?”

“Just look at them in the little window. You can see clear as day that Ashley’s hair is not only inappropriate for a princess float, but is just too trendy for us. Why, it looks like something out of one of those Hollywood Grammys or Oscars or some such nonsense. You know how strange those actresses look.”

James repressed a sigh and accepted the camera Mrs. Desmond thrust into his hand. “Turn it on right here,” she advised him, and he looked at photo after photo of dear Ashley wearing a fake-fur-trimmed gown. Her hair had been fluffed up and back, in some kind of curls, a style that did stand out among the other girls. Ashley’s hair appeared a bit softer around her small face.

“It’s different.” And maybe better, James thought, but didn’t add his editorial comment. He was no expert on current teenage hairstyles. Or teenage girl anything.

“So different that I’m sure everyone was laughing behind her back.”

“Did anyone make a comment to you or to her?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t thinking it!”

“Did you speak to Clarissa or the new stylist?”

“No, I did not! I didn’t see Ashley’s hair until I went to the parade, and by then, the damage was already done. I thought I should talk to you first, to see what my legal options are.” Demanding Desmond leaned closer and narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t want to do or say anything that might influence my legal rights.”

James repressed another sigh. “You can’t sue because you didn’t like the hairstyle. You need actual damages.”

“How about the damage to my daughter’s image? She won’t even talk about it. That’s how upset she is.”

“James, why don’t you talk to that new hairdresser? Maybe she just doesn’t understand what’s expected of her.”

“Mother, don’t you think that’s Clarissa’s job?”

“Well, maybe…”

“Excellent idea!” Mrs. Desmond said. “You go talk to Clarissa and you’ll see what I mean.”

“I don’t think—”

“Yes, that sounds reasonable,” his mother interrupted.

He glared at his mom, then said, “Mrs. Desmond, with all due respect, I don’t have a dog in this fight.”

“Dogs? Who’s talking about dogs? This is about hairstyles!”

His point exactly, which apparently he wasn’t going to be allowed to make between his mother’s inherent sympathy and her hopes for a potential client.

“I was just going to lunch.”

“Fine. Then you can stop by Clarissa’s on your way over to the Burger Barn.”

“Mrs. Desmond, I’m not agreeing to take your case.”

“Okay, but once you see this new hairdresser, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Her hair is as red as the volunteer fire department’s new truck! She’s not one of us. I don’t know where she’s from, but it’s not around here, that’s for sure.”

Which made James wonder what a fire-engine-red-haired, innovative stylist was doing in Brody’s Crossing, Texas.

A few minutes later, with Mrs. Desmond gone and his mother nibbling on a tuna salad sandwich at her desk, James grabbed his jacket and headed for the Burger Barn, which was across the street from Clarissa’s House of Style. Eat first, ask questions later. He would not be lured into the beauty shop out of curiosity. That type of behavior could get him in trouble—with himself, if not anyone else.

But when he walked by Clarissa’s, he glanced into the big picture window. Just to see if they were open and working. He squinted against the bright December sunlight, wondering if his eyes could be trusted.

He stopped on the uneven concrete sidewalk and stared as the petite hairdresser brushed and used a blow dryer on someone older—he couldn’t tell who from this angle.

Wow. The newcomer’s hair really was as red as the fire truck. Her bright green sweater ended just shy of her belly button, which twinkled with a tiny bit of silver or gold. Her jeans were tight in all the right places. Several long strands of beads swung as she wielded the blow dryer. Overall, she looked as if she were a Christmas elf making mischief inside Clarissa’s shop.

He approached the door, all thoughts of burgers gone.

Chapter Two

Scarlett looked up from fighting Myra Hammer’s tight perm as the door to the shop opened. Holy schmoly. What was a man—especially a man who looked like this one—doing here? Surely there was a barbershop in Brody’s Crossing where the young and preppy got their already neat hair cut. Not that she minded looking at six feet of trim, hunky, thirty-something male, dressed in pressed chinos, a blue plaid button-down shirt and a brown leather jacket. His belt matched his polished boots, and his nails appeared clean and trimmed. She just couldn’t imagine what he wanted in the very pink House of Style.

“May I help you?” she asked, since Venetia was in the back mixing up color for her client, and Clarissa was off to the café for lunch with “the girls,” as she called her friends.

“You must be the new stylist,” the dark-haired hunk said with a smile. “The one who’s ‘not from around here.’”

“Yep, that would be me.”

“I’m James Brody,” he said, handing her a card from his jacket pocket. “My office is down the street, across from the bank, next to the little park with the fountain.”

“Not that you’re doing us much good,” Myra Hammer interjected. “Won’t even do what we ask you to do.”

Scarlett frowned and looked at the card. “An attorney? Sorry, but I don’t need an attorney. Now, if you were a mechanic, we could talk business.”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d have a moment to speak to me.” He looked down at Myra, and Scarlett got the impression he was working to keep his expression neutral. “In private.”

“I’m busy now. I’ll be finished in ten minutes.”

“Maybe,” Myra said. “I want my hair with a wave, but no little curls. I can’t stand those little curls.”

Then why did you get a tight perm? Scarlett felt like asking, but didn’t. “Ten to fifteen minutes.”

“I can grab a burger and come back in fifteen minutes. Unless you’d like for me to wait and we can get something together. If you haven’t eaten yet.”

He was asking her out to lunch? How odd. He didn’t even know her. “That’s nice, but…”

“You might as well go to lunch with him,” Myra interjected. “He’s rich, powerful and single.”

“Now, Myra, you know I’m not getting rich in this town,” Brody answered. “And I’m hardly powerful.”

“You’re a Brody, aren’t you?” Myra looked up at Scarlett. “Town’s named after his family.”

“Oh, I hadn’t made the connection.”

“That was generations ago. They owned a ranch, like most everyone else around here.”

“You could be rich if you’d sued that grocery store. I could have gotten sick on bruised bananas.”

“But you didn’t, because you had enough sense not to eat the bananas, and therefore we didn’t have a case.”

“So now I have to eat bad bananas to get my due!”

“I didn’t say that,” James Brody replied, then sighed. “And besides, I came in to see…I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“I forgot to tell you. It’s Scarlett.”

“Scarlett…?”

“Just Scarlett, unless you’re from the licensing board or health department or insist on seeing my license.”

“That bad, hmm?”

She nodded. “My mother has a warped sense of humor.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He shifted from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable—but why? Because he stood in a beauty salon, or because he’d just asked her out to lunch? “So, Scarlett, do you want to get a burger?”

She could definitely use all the free meals she could get, since her car engine, as the snaggletoothed chicken crate man had prophesized, was “blown.” But no, she couldn’t have lunch. She had another client coming in after Myra was finished with her wave, no tight curls.

“Sorry, but I can’t. I’m booked up until after two o’clock. If you want to talk, I’ll work you in.”

“Well, if that’s the best you can do, I’ll accept your offer to see me between appointments,” he replied, and added a dimpled smile, which proved just how perfectly preppy—and okay, charming—he really was.

“Just remember you can’t trust lawyers,” Myra said.

“It’s good to see you, too, Myra,” Brody replied without the dimple, then gave Scarlett another slight, all-suffering smile. “I’ll see you in a few.”

“I’ll be here.” As soon as the door closed behind him, Scarlett wondered just exactly what she’d agreed to do…and if she should have held out for the free lunch.

“HI,” JAMES BRODY SAID, as he walked into the salon fifteen minutes later, on the dot. Scarlett finished putting away styling products into a rolling cart. She dropped a comb in sterilizing solution and turned to face him. “How was your burger?”

“Same as always. I eat there every day, except Chamber of Commerce monthly luncheons and the occasional meeting with a client.”

Scarlett thought that sounded extremely boring, but she held her tongue. His eating habits were none of her business. Although he was here, making something his business. But what?

Venetia was working with a client. Since she wasn’t very friendly and probably gossiped like a pro, Scarlett would rather not talk to James Brody in front of her. “Do you want to go out back to talk? It’s not too chilly today. At least the cold wind has died down.”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

She had the feeling he was watching her as they made their way through the shampoo area, the room with the lumpy pull-out sofa she currently called home, and out the back door, where there was a small porch.

She settled into the lawn chair, leaned back, raised her tired feet to the railing and looked up. “Well, Mr. Lawyer, what did you need to talk about?”

He leaned against the iron railing next to the two steps going to the parking area, and folded his arms across his leather jacket and very nice chest. “Mrs. Desmond came into my office just before lunch. Apparently you fixed her daughter Ashley’s hair on Saturday.”

“Oh, yes. Petite girl with—” Scarlett almost said “big ears,” but stopped herself in time “—brown hair.”

“Her mother is upset that Ashley’s hair wasn’t styled as usual. Or at least in a style similar to the other girls. She felt Ashley was damaged by being different.”

“What?” Scarlett sat upright and swung her feet to the porch. “Ashley loved her hair!”

“Apparently her mother had different ideas.”

“Well, her mother is wrong! That traditional updo isn’t right for a teenager. She needed something softer, with a little volume…er, on the sides.” To cover up her big ears, not show them off.

“I know that you believe you gave her a style that was suitable for her face, but you’ve got to understand that in small towns, being traditional is often more important.”

“That’s nonsense. There’s no reason these girls should look like little cookie cutter dolls. They should get hairstyles that are appropriate for them.”

“Their mothers are paying for the styles, so they have some say in the final product.”

“If Ashley’s mother thinks an updo would look better on her daughter than that cute twisted-curl style I did, she just doesn’t know what she’s talking about. You should ignore her.”

“I’m not encouraging her to sue—”

“Sue! She should be thanking me!”

“She has a different opinion, and whether you or I agree with her, she’s Ashley’s mother and lives in this town. She feels her daughter was harmed.”

“I can’t believe this! I’m telling you that Ashley loved her hair. You can ask Clarissa.”

“I haven’t talked to Clarissa, and neither did Mrs. Desmond, apparently. She came to my office earlier and asked me to talk to you.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous!”

“I’m just saying that sometime between Ashley leaving the salon and Monday morning, Mrs. Desmond decided to see an attorney. Now, as I said, I didn’t encourage her.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful for that?”

“Look, if she comes around, just tell her you’re sorry you didn’t fix her daughter’s hair as she was expecting it to be fixed.”

“I will not apologize for styling that girl’s hair in a flattering, appropriate manner.”

“Okay, then, but you might expect complaints about these unfamiliar styles. People might thing they’re too…mature.”

“That’s absurd.” Scarlett picked up one of the magazines and turned to a section on teen styles. “Look at these! I didn’t do anything near this edgy or dramatic.” She shoved the magazine at him.

He thumbed through several pages and raised his eyebrows. He was so well groomed that she couldn’t even criticize his brows, skin care or even his hair—although the style was kind of boring with a side part, and just long enough to start to curl at the nape of his neck.

“These are as you say, more dramatic than what you did, but that won’t necessarily satisfy Mrs. Desmond.”

Scarlett grabbed the magazine and put it back on the little table next to the chair. “I won’t be around long enough to care. As soon as my car is repaired, I’m out of here.”

James Brody, attorney at law, shrugged. “That might be best.”

“Hey, who elected you hairstyle sheriff? This is the twenty-first century. You can’t run me out of town!”

He frowned. “I’m just pointing out your best option.”

She stepped closer and pointed her own finger at him, nearly jabbing him in the chest—which she didn’t actually touch because he might have her arrested for assault. “Listen, I don’t need to be told I don’t belong here. If you want to be useful, get Claude McCaskie to find the parts he needs to repair my car. I’ll be out of here faster than you can say ‘lawsuit.’”

“I didn’t come down here in any official capacity, and I’m not getting in the middle of the fight.”

“Oh, you put yourself in the middle, bub.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me bub.”

“What are you going to do—sue me?”

He leaned closer, until they were nearly eye to eye. “I might just take Mrs. Desmond’s case, at which point I’d have you held over for a trial.”

Scarlett’s eyes narrowed. If she could, she would have blown smoke and fire from her nose. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Don’t provoke me.”

“You’re the one who came down here and threatened me!”

She watched anger and frustration war on his face. Granted, it was a handsome face, but as her Southern belle grandmother used to say, “Pretty is as pretty does.” Right now he didn’t seem so much like a pretty boy as he did a small-town ogre. What nerve, to come in here and tell her she didn’t know how to fix hair, then threaten to keep her here with bogus charges!

“I came here to deflect a possible issue for you. I can see you’re not going to cooperate, so I’ll be going. Don’t be surprised if you get more complaints.”

“I never let the criticism of small minds bother me.”

“We’ll see. I guess that depends on how long you’re here and whether Clarissa decides to support you.” He turned and stormed down the two steps to the gravel parking space behind the salon, and disappeared around the side of the city hall office building.

Scarlett slumped against the wall. Where would she stay if Clarissa decided she was too much trouble? Damn that car! She should have traded it in on something more reliable years ago, even if her actions did make her seem ungrateful to her parents, who’d given her the clunky monster because it was big, safe and paid for.

That’s what happened when you depended on others. That’s why she needed to be successful and independent. So she wouldn’t have to apologize to the Mrs. Desmonds of the world or defend her actions to her family.

When she was successful, she could express herself and people would actually listen and care. They wouldn’t tell her to stop trying to be different. They’d ask her what was next! They’d expect a new, original, bold style.

But right now, she was stuck in a town where mothers expected updos and lawyers threatened to sue over a hairstyle! Unless she hitchhiked to L.A., she’d be here until her car was running again.

Maybe she would have to bite her tongue and play nice, but she wasn’t going to like it.

JAMES WAS TOO UPSET by his confrontation with Scarlett to talk to her or about her the rest of the day. He hadn’t encountered such a defensive, argumentative person in a long time. Definitely not since moving back home. Although some of the folks around Brody’s Crossing could be cranky and opinionated, they didn’t actively argue like Scarlett No-last-name. At least, not unless they’d been drinking too much at Dewey’s Saloon and Steakhouse. He had a couple of clients who fit that description, but he usually only saw them late on occasional Saturday nights or holiday weekends.

That redheaded stranger was infuriating. He’d tried to be nice and helpful, and she’d gone ballistic on him. Well, maybe not ballistic, but she’d been one step away from poking him in the chest. If she had, he wasn’t sure what he would have done. Grabbed her finger and pulled her too close to punch him, that was for sure. The extremely odd and vexing thing was that he’d also had the strangest urge to kiss her while he was at it. Just to shut her up, he told himself. Definitely not for any other reason.

On Tuesday morning, as he worked on a new legal agreement between Troy Crawford and Angelo Ramirez to lease part of the Rocking C, James heard a commotion in the reception area. “It’s that new girl at Clarissa’s,” one of the women said in a whining, shaky tone.

“We didn’t tell her to fix our hair this way,” another woman said.

James dropped his head in his hands for just a second, then heard his mother reply, “I’m sure James can help you.”

“No, I can’t,” he whispered, but that didn’t do any good. He pushed away from his desk and prepared to face the newest hair crisis in Brody’s Crossing.

“Oh, James, Maribelle and Ellen want to talk to you,” his mother said as he walked up to her desk.

“About their hair,” he finished.

The women were obviously sisters. Maybe twins, although he couldn’t remember them from growing up here.

“We’ve worn our hair the same way for…well, for a long time,” one of the ladies said. “Here.” She thrust forward a photo he recognized as the church directory photographer’s work.

“I see,” he said. The picture showed a woman frozen in time, with an extremely traditional, tightly curled hairstyle and oversize beige, plastic-framed glasses. It could have been taken last year or thirty years ago.

“That girl said she’d like to try something flattering, and well, since she’s from Atlanta on her way to California to work at a fancy salon, we said okay,” the other woman said.

“We didn’t expect her to do anything really different,” the first woman whined.

He looked at their softer waves, the pale blond replacing the slightly blue color in the photo, and the ends kind of feathering along their necklines. He thought they looked pretty good. “Yes, the style is different, but both of you ladies look very nice.”

“Why, thank you, young man,” the second woman said.

“But we liked our hair. We felt comfortable with it. We’re not even sure how to fix it now. And what are we going to do with all our temporary rinses that we’d stocked up on when the drugstore in Olney went out of business? We must have two years worth of Fanciful!”

James didn’t know rinse from wash, and wasn’t about to ask. He took a deep breath before telling them they should talk to Clarissa.

Before he could speak, the whiney one added, “We talked to Mrs. Desmond and she said we should talk to you. If we could get enough people, we could file a class action lawsuit and get a lot of money.”

James shook his head. “Ladies, there is no basis for a class action lawsuit, where you would need to have suffered actual losses from a defective product or fraudulent contract or claim. You can’t sue a hairdresser because you don’t like your hairstyle. If you were unhappy, you should have refused to pay for the service.”

“That just seems so rude, don’t you think, Ellen?”

“Yes. We didn’t want to be rude, even though she is awfully different, with that red hair and those wild clothes.” The one who must be Maribelle leaned close to his mother and added, “She has one of those pierced belly buttons. That would be so painful! And can you imagine how many times it would get snagged on your clothes?”

James closed his eyes at the image of Scarlett’s belly button ring getting snagged on his clothes. On his zipper…He did not need this complication. “Please, go talk to Clarissa. I’m sure she can straighten this out.”

“Oh, we can’t talk to Clarissa. She lives here.”

He felt as if his head were about to explode. “I’ve already talked to Scarlett, and she’s leaving as soon as her car is repaired. That could be any day.”

“But what about the lawsuit?”

“There is no lawsuit!”

“James, really, you don’t need to yell,” his mother reminded him. “It’s not professional.”

“I’m sorry, but this controversy over the new stylist has gotten out of hand.” Not that he would mind getting his hands on Scarlett, just to shake her up, of course. Not for any other reason.

“I think you should talk to her again,” his mother said, before he could tell her not to get involved.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“But you’re so good at working out these problems.”

“We want you to see if there are other people who want to get in on this class action thing.”

“There is no class action lawsuit!”

“James, you’re yelling again.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry. If I promise to speak to Scarlett and Clarissa, will you promise me that you’ll wait to do anything? No talking to anyone else, and Mrs. Desmond especially?”

“Oh, all right. We always did like Clarissa,” Ellen said, her tone one of resignation.

“But we aren’t so sure about our hair,” Maribelle added in her whiney voice.

“I’ll go see them today. Just—” He held up his hand in what was probably a futile gesture to keep them silent. “Just don’t talk to anyone about your hair unless they compliment you, and then you can say, ‘Thank you.’”

As soon as the ladies left and he admonished his mother one more time not to encourage potential clients who wanted to sue businesses in or around Brody’s Crossing, he called Clarissa Bryant. A few minutes later, he told his mother he was going out for a while.

With heavy steps and a sense of foreboding, he walked the block or so to his hair appointment with Scarlett, recently of Atlanta, on her way to California, who really didn’t like him all that much. He was beginning to feel a little bit sorry for the temporary, temperamental stylist. And for himself, for being in the middle of a hair crisis.

“YOU’RE MY ELEVEN O’CLOCK?” Scarlett asked as she stared, openmouthed, at James Brody. He slipped out of his jacket and hung it on the rack.

“I am,” he said, easing into her chair. “I thought I’d see what look you might choose for me, given you have such strong opinions about the right style for everyone else.” He crossed his hands over his flat stomach and gave her a smarmy lawyer smile. “You are capable of cutting men’s hair, aren’t you?”

“Perfectly capable,” she replied, snapping open a black cape while she gritted her teeth. So now he was tempting her to run her fingers through his thick, dark brown hair? Fine. She was a professional.

“Telling you this probably isn’t a good idea,” he said as she picked up a razor, “but I had two more visitors to my office.”

She tested the sharpness of the blade with her finger, then looked at him through her lashes. “Really? More irate mothers with poor taste in hair and clothes?”

He shifted in the chair as he watched her handle the implement. “No. Irate grandmothers.”

“Who?” she asked, putting the razor down and picking up a spray bottle. She misted his hair with water.

“Maribelle and Ellen. Twins or close to it. Formerly with steel-blue curls.”

“Ah yes, I remember them well.” She bit the bullet and sank her fingers into his hair, all the way to the scalp. He was warm and he smelled really good, like crisp soap and clean male. She spent an extra moment savoring the feel of his strong, healthy hair. When she finished working the water through, she looked at him in the mirror. His hair was clumped into spikes around his well-shaped head. He had the kind of bone structure and features that could pull off almost any style.

“Are you ready to get started?”

“Oh, sure.” She made her decision, seeing his style in the lay of his hair, the amount of curl and body. “What about Maribelle and Ellen?”

“They were sort of complaining. They seemed distressed that their style and color were different.”

“They were happy when they left. Sort of.” She pulled his hair between her fingers, angled away from his head, and ran the razor along the ends.

“I promised them I’d talk to you.” He sighed, then said, “Actually, I told my mother I’d talk to you.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be reporting to your mommy?” She had to distance herself, because he was entirely too appealing on a physical level.

“She works for me. And I don’t report to her.”

“Whatever. Why do these supposedly dissatisfied customers keep coming to you rather than mentioning to me or Clarissa that they’re unhappy with their hair?”

“They told me that withholding payment or talking to Clarissa seemed rude. I told them there was no basis for a class action lawsuit, but I have a theory.”

Class action lawsuit! As if she were a faulty heater! She worked her way up to the crown of his head and forced herself to relax. “What’s your theory about this lawsuit that shouldn’t even be considered?”

“Don’t worry. No one is filing a lawsuit. However, ever since I returned to Brody’s Crossing last year, I’ve had a steady stream of folks wanting to sue. There must be some pent-up legal needs in town, because I’ve had some wild requests.”

Scarlett took a deep breath and decided to ignore talk of lawsuits, focusing instead on the information he’d revealed about himself. “Where did you return from?”

“Fort Worth.”

“That’s not very far.” She’d almost gone through Fort Worth when she’d taken that wrong turn in Dallas.

“Not in miles, but it is in culture.”

“Were you a lawyer there?”

“Yes, corporate law.”

She couldn’t imagine a more boring profession. Who would choose that kind of work when they could be talking to real people all day? Of course, being a corporate attorney would pay a whole lot more than her stylist salary. Enough that he probably wouldn’t be stuck in Brody’s Crossing with a huge car repair bill that he couldn’t really afford.

“Why did you come back here?”

“I decided that the folks here needed legal representation, whether they made good decisions or not.”

“I don’t think it’s wise to sue someone who makes you look better.” She finished her initial razor cut, then used her fingers to pull his hair out from his scalp, eyeing the length of each strand as she did so. She made a few adjustments. Perfect.

“Probably not, but then, I’m not encouraging them.”

“And yet you’re right in the middle of this would-be controversy.” She put down her razor and picked up the styling gel.

“So true.” He twisted around to look at the product. “What are you putting in my hair?”

“Something to give it a little body and shape.”

“It’s not colored, is it?”

“No. It’s clear.”

“I don’t want stiff, blue or purple hair.”

He seemed so cautious that she smiled. “Honey, this won’t make you stiff.”

He stilled, meeting her eyes in the mirror. His were hot. Smoldering. Not the least bit angry. She stared back, suddenly realizing what she’d said to this very attractive, single man. She’d definitely grabbed his attention. This time, she couldn’t blame their awareness on an argument.

At least, not yet. She was pretty sure they’d get around to disagreement sooner or later.

“Anyway,” she said, breaking eye contact, squeezing a dab into her palm, “you have to trust me. This is good stuff.”

“So you say,” he replied, settling back in his chair.

She rubbed the gel through his thick, somewhat shorter hair. It felt good. Too good. She was a stylist, for heaven’s sake. She shouldn’t react this strongly to hair.

To distract herself, and keep him from seeing the finished product, she spun the chair around to face the row of old-fashioned bonnet-style hair dryers lined up on the other wall. This time of day, in the middle of the week, they were all empty.

She used the hand-held dryer, shaping his slightly damp strands into a hip style, something a successful, thirty-something city dweller might wear. Of course, James Brody was a small-town lawyer, not a big-city stockbroker or advertising executive, but still, she thought he looked good. Okay, more than good. He looked hot.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t be impatient. I’ll turn you around in a minute. Like I said, trust me.”

“This from a woman with bright red spiky hair,” he replied.

“Yeah, well, it matches my name.”

“I wonder which came first.”

“It’s a chicken-and-egg kind of thing. I’m Scarlett, through and through, thanks to Logics R6.”

“Hmm. I take it that’s fire-engine-red hair color?”

“Right.” She finished up his hair and didn’t say anything else stupid. Before she spun him around, she took a real good look at her work. Yep, star quality. Hollywood worthy. And not just the haircut. “You’re done,” she said, twirling him toward the mirror.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. However, he didn’t frown. He assessed. He tilted. He studied. “Hmm. Different, but I kind of like it.”

His hair wasn’t smooth like before, and didn’t have a part. She’d pulled the short strands forward in a natural style. “Really? I mean, that’s great.” She unfastened the vinyl cape and swung it away from his big shoulders. She was used to small shoulders. Women, mostly. Not hot, hunky guys. She brushed a few hairs from his yellow shirt.

He paused at her touch, then stood and reached for his wallet. “What do I owe?”

“Um, you’ll have to ask Clarissa. I don’t know what she charges for men’s razor cuts.”

He sauntered to the front of the salon. Scarlett followed him with her gaze until she realized Venetia was probably staring. She looked at the other stylist. Yep, staring. Scarlett smiled like she really didn’t mean it, and then tried her best to eavesdrop on Clarissa and James.

“Yes, she does a good job, doesn’t she?” Clarissa said. “People might be surprised, but I swear, business has picked up in just three days.” She leaned closer and said more softly, so that Scarlett could barely hear, “Personally, I think a lot of folks come by out of curiosity, but whatever brings them in is fine with me.”

“A few have mentioned that they were…concerned that their hairstyles were different than they were expecting,” he said to Clarissa very tactfully.

“Really? No one’s said anything to me.”

“I’ve told them to talk to you or Scarlett.”

Clarissa patted his arm. “Good advice, as usual.”

James paid what he owed, then handed over some more money. A tip? After leaning close and saying something that made Clarissa laugh, he turned. Scarlett looked away and started sweeping up his dark, shorn hair.

“So, like a lot of your clients, I look different,” he said to her, hesitating near her station.

“I think you look great. I mean, better.”

“I’m getting used to it.” He bent a little to glance in the mirror, raking a hand through his hair before continuing. “I don’t look much like a corporate lawyer.”

No, he looked like the hunky doctor on the TV show about people stranded on an island, only he needed a few days’ worth of beard and a torn T-shirt. “That’s because you’re not a corporate lawyer anymore. You’re the Brody’s Crossing lawyer, apparently now specializing in controversial hairstyles.”

“You’re right.” He smiled at her, then paused before saying, “I realize that we got off to a bad start. Could I take you to dinner to make up for it?”

“Dinner?”

“The meal most of us eat at night.”

“I know what it means, but I thought I’m supposed to be the enemy. I’m not sure why you’d want to be seen with me in public.” She narrowed her eyes and watched him. “You are talking about a real restaurant, right? Not going to your apartment or your mother’s?”

“Dinner in public at Dewey’s, you and me, no mother. Why don’t I pick you up around six? And where are you staying?”

“Right here,” she said, pointing to the rear of the salon. “Back room sofa. Home sweet home.” Until she was no longer stranded in Texas.

Chapter Three

“So, tell me how you came to be stuck in Brody’s Crossing,” James asked once they’d been seated in a relatively quiet corner of Dewey’s. The high backs of the dark vinyl booth enfolded them and kept the country-and-western music from interfering with conversation.

Scarlett fiddled with her paper napkin and rearranged the flatware on the table, then said, “It’s simple. I was on my way to California, took a wrong turn in Dallas, ended up going a different way to the I-40, and then my aging Benz broke down.”

“How bad is it?”

“Claude pulled the engine and is getting estimates on parts, but he thinks it’s going to be bad. Real bad. Something about a cracked piston ring.”

“That does sound bad.”

“Honestly, I didn’t plan to spend all my money on that car. My parents gave it to me ten years ago.” She shrugged. “I guess I thought it would just keep going forever. I probably should have traded it in, but I never got around to it, and they kept telling me how safe it is.”

“So, what’s waiting for you in California?” Boyfriend? he wondered. She wasn’t wearing an engagement ring or anything similar. As a matter of fact, she wore lots of rings, but they all looked…casual. Like costume jewelry rather than serious jewels. Her manner of dress was also casual—very California.

“A great opportunity. I’m starting an internship in January at a very prestigious salon in L.A. Really, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance.”

She seemed so excited about her new job, and granted, working in a prestigious salon seemed like a big goal. Scarlett—whatever her real name was—fairly radiated energy. “Sounds important for you to get there.”

“Yes, it is. I met Diego, the owner, at a hair show in Atlanta. We hit it off, basically because I knew all the great places to shop and people watch, which is his specialty. Anyway, we had a good time, he liked my work and he offered me an internship at his salon. You would not believe the client list! He does hair for some of the top movers and shakers in town.”

As James wondered why he was mildly jealous of the people-watching Diego, Twila, who was the cousin of his eleventh-grade girlfriend, came and took their drink orders. James had a beer, and instead of something sophisticated, urbane and expensive, Scarlett ordered a diet soft drink. “Tell me you’re old enough to drink,” he teased when the waitress left.

She laughed, a hearty, real laugh that warmed him. “Yes, I’ve been old enough for oh, about seven years now. I’m just not much of a drinker.”

“Twenty-eight is young.”

“And you’re what, ancient?”

He shrugged. “No, just feels that way sometimes. I’m thirty-three, divorced, and you know this is my hometown. My mother works for me part-time in my law office.”

“Working with a relative seems as if it could be a real disaster. You must have a good relationship.”

As he wondered if Scarlett was thinking of her own family, he fiddled with his knife and fork. “We do. She got bored sitting around what’s left of the family ranch. She and my dad sold off most of the acreage when he retired.”

“Ah, yes. The Brodys of Brody’s Crossing.”

“Well, that was in the late 1800s. My mother and father worked for a living. She’s a real people person. She and I both agreed that working for me would be good. However, sometimes she’s a little too enthusiastic about getting me clients.”

“I guess I should be glad you’re not anxious to pursue bad-hair grievances.”

“Well, that’s a boon for me, at least. I thought you might still be angry.”

“No, I got over that pretty quick. Besides, you’re buying me a meal. And offering something new to do. Believe me, sitting around the back room of the House of Style all night is not my idea of a rocking good time. Clarissa doesn’t even have a TV, and I’m really getting tired of easy listening, classic rock and country, country, country on the radio.”

That did sound pretty boring. “I’m glad I can be a diversion.”

“I didn’t mean that’s all you are,” she quickly added.

“I didn’t take it that way. I didn’t realize how ‘stuck’ you really are. I can’t imagine not having a car to get where you want to go.”

She nodded. “I need to find an apartment and get settled in L.A. before Christmas.”

“I know you want to go to California, but it must be hard being away from your family during the holidays.” How many people could give up Christmas in order to start over in a strange town? That had to be difficult. “Oh, not as much as you might expect,” she said, spreading her paper napkin on her lap. “I have a sister and a brother to fill in the gap, plus my sister-in-law is pregnant. And trust me, the parents are much happier to talk about the doctor, the accountant and the upcoming grandchild than they are talking about the ‘hairdresser.’”

“But they’re your family! Do you really think they’re disappointed in you?”

She shrugged. “I do. I’m a hairdresser—they can’t remember that I’m a stylist—in a perfect suburban family of overachievers. It’s not something they brag about.”

What could he say to that? James had a hard time imagining a family that wasn’t supportive, because his parents had always been loving, even when he’d done some rather stupid things in high school. Darn his best friend, Wyatt. That boy could have talked a saint into sinning! But when Wyatt had left for Stanford, James had gone to UT Austin and cleaned up his act to get into law school.

He understood goals, which Scarlett had, even if the goal wasn’t something her parents considered important.

“Do you like Atlanta?” he asked.

She shrugged again. “It’s okay. It’s kind of traditional, you know?”

James was saved from asking what was so wrong with tradition as Twila came to take their dinner orders. “What can I get you?” she asked.

Scarlett folded her menu. “I’ll have the meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and a salad with ranch. Oh, and two dinner rolls, please.”

James smiled, thinking of her petite figure and her big appetite. “I’ll have the sirloin, medium, baked potato, and a salad with blue cheese.” He looked at Scarlett. “Are you sure you don’t want a steak?”

“No, I have a real craving for meat loaf tonight.”

“Comfort food?”

She rearranged her knife and fork again. “Something like that.”

SCARLETT LEANED BACK against the leather seat of James’s sporty red SUV. She’d been surprised earlier that his vehicle was red, but hadn’t made any snappy remarks. She was trying to be on her best behavior, since the man had bought her a meal, and she was way too bored to go back to the salon early if she insulted him accidentally.

He’d told her that he’d really just wanted to make up for making her angry, for letting their conversation in back of the salon get out of hand. The way she remembered it, she’d been the one who’d accelerated that conflict, but he had made her angry with what he saw as a reasonable suggestion. She still didn’t see why he’d put himself in the middle of the hair wars between her and her clients.

She sighed, and didn’t realize he’d heard until he asked, “Are you okay?”

“Sure. I’m just thinking.” She sat up straighter. “Hey, look at those Christmas lights! That’s really cool.” A whole herd of white-light reindeer stood on a small lawn where all the bushes and trees sported multicolored lights.

“You probably haven’t seen any of our Christmas lights, have you? Would you like to drive around a little?”

“That would be great!” She definitely wasn’t ready to face another boring night of country-and-western Christmas tunes on the FM radio at the salon.

James turned left off the road that led downtown from Dewey’s, onto a smaller residential street. “Lots of families around here go all-out to decorate their homes for the holidays. Sometimes you can see the lights from hundreds of yards away, when the houses sit far back from the road.”

He cruised slowly down the street, which was lined with normal-size yards and houses.

“I love the icicle lights that hang down from the eaves and gutters,” she said, leaning close to the window. Since the temperature was fairly mild, her breath barely made a frosty spot on the glass.

When she was a little girl, she would breathe on the glass on purpose and write with her finger. Her parents were not amused, since they’d paid someone to wash the car and clean the interior. She got in trouble even after she started writing her sister’s name on the glass, which apparently didn’t fool anyone, since her sister was too much of a goody-two-shoes to deface clean car windows.

“Oh, look, multicolored icicle lights. I like those.”

“You would,” James said.

She heard the smile in his voice and glanced at him. His profile was nearly as perfect as his face. His hair still looked adorably ruffled, as if he’d rolled out of bed and run his fingers through it.

Which, of course, hadn’t been her intention when she’d cut it earlier. Had it?

“Why did you say that? Do you know me so well already?”

“I know that the traditional icicle lights are white, so naturally you’d like the most colorful ones. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

She settled back against the seat. “No, you’re right. I’m a rebel without a cause.”

“Maybe you don’t have a cause, but you have a goal, and that’s just as important.”

She sat up a little straighter. “I suppose you’re right! Even if other people don’t understand or agree with me, it’s my goal, and darn it, I will get to California.”

“I never doubted it for a second. And,” he said, slowing the car and looking over at her, “I really wouldn’t have filed a lawsuit and kept you in town. I only said that because you…well, you irritated me for a moment.”

“I never seriously thought you would. Oh, you might think about it. You might even mentally plan the whole thing. But I didn’t think you’d go through with it.”

“You know me that well?”

She shrugged. “Seems that way. Now, let’s find some more Christmas lights before they roll up the sidewalks in this town.”

James laughed and turned left at the end of the street. Scarlett smiled into the darkness, blew on the glass and wrote his initials with her finger. However, unlike when she was just a kid, she didn’t draw a heart around them. That would be just too stupid, since in a couple of days she’d be out of here.

But she wanted to…

ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Claude McCaskie called and asked Clarissa if Scarlett could walk over to the service station. Since she didn’t have any customers then, Scarlett skedaddled out the door, hoping like heck that the man would have good news.

“Tell me you’ve found the parts,” she said, breathless from nearly-jogging in her high-heeled boots.

“Nope,” Claude replied. “The places I usually get reasonably priced parts from in Fort Worth don’t have any piston rings for that engine, and I’m runnin’ out of options.”

“No! I really need to get my car fixed.”

Claude shook his head. “I’ve got one more place to check in Dallas. Now, the problem is, the rings they get might be really used, if you get my drift.”

“I know we were trying to save money. That’s the only way I can afford the repairs.”

“Just so you know. But I don’t want to leave you stranded again beside the highway. There might not be another town so close by.”

That was true. She was nearly to the most desolate part of her trip, out through the uninhabited Wild West lands of New Mexico and Arizona. “Could you try? Maybe they can find slightly used parts.”

“Missy, ain’t nothin’ slightly used on an old engine like this unless it was wrecked right off the bat. But I’m tryin’.”

“I appreciate it, Claude,” she answered, trying not to seem too dejected.

“If I can’t find them parts, do you want me to look into new ones? It’s gonna cost a lot more, but they’d be a lot more reliable.”

Scarlett sighed. “Get me a price and I’ll see what I can afford.”

“You could always see what you’d get for junk.”

“Junk?”

“For the Mercedes. At the junkyard or the auction.”

She felt her eyes widen and the breath leave her lungs. Just for a moment. “No, I can’t do that.” Not yet. The Benz was still in good shape. It was just those pesky piston rings. Surely people didn’t trash their perfectly good cars because of something so small.

So darn hard to find!

Besides, the car was her link to her past. Okay, to her family. They’d given it to her. It didn’t seem right to practically throw it away.

“’Course, we could try for a new engine. Well, not new, but with less miles. New to this car.”

“Oh, that’s an idea. How much is a new engine?”

“Probably about the same as new rings, but I ’spect we’d be able to find an engine. I can get some prices.”

“Thanks, Claude. Call me when you have news. You know where I’ll be.”

“I surely do,” he replied with an irritating chuckle.

Scarlett left the service station and pulled her hoodie close around her. The wind was picking up again, but it wasn’t too cold. The sun shone on the silver tinsel and candy canes along the main street, pulling her eye toward the two-story building on the next block. The one next to the little park, which she hadn’t visited. Yet.

With resolve to get out of her funky mood, she set off for downtown Brody’s Crossing. Maybe she should visit a park. Or a lawyer who had an office right beside one.

JAMES LOOKED UP FROM reading a brief when his door opened, then closed. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He hoped no one had any more bad-hair cases.

“Hello?”

He recognized Scarlett’s voice and pushed back from his desk immediately. “In here.”

She appeared at the doorway to his office, her cheeks nearly as red as her hair. She seemed even more disheveled than usual, as if she’d battled the wind all the way down the street.

“You look cold. Can I make you some coffee?”

“Do you have hot chocolate?” she asked, blowing into cupped hands.

“Let’s check.” He walked toward her and she scooted back, out of the doorway, so he could pass. She obviously didn’t want to make contact.

He felt her presence as he hunkered down in front of the cabinet where the coffeemaker and microwave perched next to the mini-refrigerator. “Looks like you’re in luck. My mother keeps the cabinet well stocked with almost anything a client or potential client would want.”

“Great. Clarissa keeps the coffee going all day, and I’ve had enough to keep me awake until January.”

James chuckled as he filled the coffee carafe at the small sink. “I think this hot water will be okay for the hot chocolate.”

“Or I could make it in the microwave. I’m not picky as long as I get warmed up.” Scarlett rubbed her hands together as if emphasizing her words. “I wish I was already in California.”

He didn’t say anything, and she must have understood how her statement sounded, because she added, “Oh, not that I’m not enjoying your company, but weatherwise…”

“I understand. It’s difficult for a small Texas town to compete with sun and surf. Not to mention mud slides, brush fires and earthquakes.”

“Very funny. Those are rare occurrences.”

“Here’s some hot chocolate to warm you until you can get past those burning hills to the sunny beaches.”

“You’re a bundle of joy, aren’t you? Just what I needed to cheer me up after talking to Claude McCaskie.” She accepted the white mug, wrapping it in her slender hands with the bright red nail polish on her fairly short nails. “But thanks for the hot chocolate.”

“I’m just joking with you.” Sort of. He wasn’t a big fan of California. He’d gone to a legal conference out there and had ended up stuck in traffic, confined to his hotel due to dangerous smoke in the air, and then had a flight delay after a small earthquake. Of course, the beach had been spectacular. Not to mention the beautiful, tanned California girls in bikinis. “Did Claude have some news about your car repairs?”

“No real news,” Scarlett said with a sigh. She updated James on the conversation she’d just had with the mechanic, even the part about getting rid of the Benz.

“So he mentioned junking it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She turned away and walked around the office. “It’s cozy in here. I like the exposed brick wall.”

“I do, too. This is one of the oldest brick buildings in town, built in the 1920s. Many of the original, frame structures burned after a particularly civic minded prohibitionist set fire to the local honky-tonk.”

“Hmm, sounds like they could have used a good lawyer.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure if there was one back then. Come to think of it, my predecessor could have been practicing then. He was pretty old when he passed on last year.”

“Is that when you moved back to town?”

“My parents became ill. My father first, and then my mother, from taking care of him. I knew I needed to move back here, even with their friends in town helping out. I was married at the time, and things got complicated.”

“Your wife didn’t want to move?”

“That’s right. How did you know?”

“I’m a stylist. Women tell me things. One of the biggest stresses in a marriage is when one of the spouses either gets transferred or decides to move. They think the other one will go along, but find out their partner doesn’t feel the same way. I see it from both sides—women who want to transfer and expect their husbands to understand, and women who are in peril of being uprooted when their husbands take a new job.”

“I thought Babs and I agreed on the importance of family, and had discussed the advantages of raising a family in the country.”

“Your wife was named Babs?”

“That was her nickname.”

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Scarlett replied, setting her empty mug down in the sink. “You know, discussing the relative merits of country versus city life is a lot different than actually moving.”

“I found that out the hard way.”

“Do you miss her?”

“Not like I should have if we were meant to stay together. Sometimes I think I miss being married, but no, I don’t miss her very much at all.” Especially after the rather nasty things she’d told him during the divorce. Damn it, he was not a boring country hick. He liked his roots in ranching country. His values came from his community and his family, and he wasn’t ashamed of either.

“Speaking of country,” Scarlett said, placing her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. Her movements drew his attention to the partially unzipped hooded sweatshirt and bright green T-shirt that stretched over her breasts. When he looked up, he saw amusement in her eyes. He’d been caught staring, and wondered if he should grin or apologize.

“I’d really like to see some of the ranches and land around here,” she said with humor in her voice. “And since I don’t have a car, I’m out of luck. Could I tempt you to play hooky from the office this afternoon?”

He took a deep breath. Could he just close up the office and drive around the countryside with Scarlett No-last-name? He didn’t have any appointments, but a potential client might stop by, or someone could need advice. Then there was that legal brief of a case he might be involved with before long, down at the county courthouse in Graham.

And then there was the thought of spending time with Scarlett. In just two days she’d made him ignore his good intentions twice—once to go into the salon instead of eating lunch first, then his impromptu invitation to dinner. Not to mention the way she’d raised his temper.

“That is, if your mommy doesn’t mind,” Scarlett added, and that sealed the deal.

He grabbed a sheet of paper, quickly wrote a note, and snatched a piece of tape off the dispenser on the reception desk. Then he checked to make sure the answering machine was on and that his cell phone was clipped to his waist. If anyone called, they’d get a recording that listed his mobile number. He might be playing hooky, but he did have a little sense left.

“Let’s go,” he said, switching off the lights.

Chapter Four

Sunlight streamed through the windshield and side windows of James’s red SUV as he drove out of town toward the gentle hills surrounding Brody’s Crossing. Scarlett snuggled into the leather seat and enjoyed the feeling of warmth and security. He was a good driver and she felt lulled into safety by his presence. She really didn’t care where they were headed as long as it wasn’t back to Clarissa’s House of Style or McCaskie’s Service Station.

“Would you like to see the Brody family ranch?”

“Sure. Do you still raise cattle?”

“No. My dad is retired, but they keep a few pets. My mother got some goats from someone new in town, Raven York. She’s originally from New Hampshire, so I guess you could say that she’s the previous ‘not from around here’ newcomer. She married into another local ranching family, the Crawfords. Her husband, Troy, is a client of mine.”

“I haven’t met her yet.”

“She eats lunch with Clarissa and her group at the café sometimes. You should meet her. She’s very much into natural foods and recycling and all that.”

“I haven’t gotten into that yet. Maybe once I’m in L.A.”

James chuckled. “You’re going to plan on becoming environmentally aware?”

Scarlett shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it. But that kind of thing is popular in California.”

“How about what you think? What you believe in?”

“I believe it’s important to be eco friendly. I just haven’t thought about it much.”

“What about your family?”

“My mother recycles newspapers, glass and plastic.” When Scarlett lived at home, it was always her job to drag the stuff out to the curb once a week.

“No, I mean, what are they like? Do you think you’ll miss them?”

She shrugged. “I guess. Like I told you before, they aren’t really excited about my career, so they probably think moving to California is stupid. We sort of agreed not to discuss it.”

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