MEET THE FORTUNES!

Fortune of the Month:

Amelia Fortune Chesterfield

Age: 23

Vital Statistics: Doelike eyes, ivory complexion. As fragile as a china doll—and in the family way.

Claim to Fame: Did we mention that she’s English royalty?

Romantic Prospects: Many men have pursued her for her title, but will anybody love her for just herself?

“My whole life I’ve been a good girl, following the rules, being a proper princess. But everything changed when I met Quinn in Horseback Hollow. He made me realize what was really important. In his strong cowboy arms I finally felt safe. I never should have gone back to London. Everything went so wrong so fast! Now Quinn is acting like he hates me. How can I possibly tell him I’m carrying his child?”

* * *

The Fortunes of Texas:

Welcome to Horseback Hollow!

Fortune’s Prince

Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

There is a saying that you can never be too rich or too thin. ALLISON LEIGH doesn’t believe that, but she does believe that you can never have enough books! When her stories find a way into the hearts—and bookshelves—of others, Allison says she feels she’s done something right. Making her home in Arizona with her husband, she enjoys hearing from her readers at Allison@allisonleigh.com or PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

For all the Fortune Women.

As always, it is an honor to be among you.

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

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

Chapter One

He stopped cold when he heard a faint rustle. The only light there was came from the moonlight sneaking through the barn door that he’d left open behind him.

Standing stock-still, Quinn Drummond listened intently, his eyes searching the black shadows around him. He’d built the barn. He knew it like the back of his hand. He knew the sounds that belonged, and the ones that didn’t. Animal or human, it didn’t matter. He knew.

He reached out his right hand, unerringly grabbing onto a long wooden handle. He’d prefer his shotgun, but it was up in the house. So the pitchfork would have to do.

This wasn’t some damn possum rooting around.

This was someone. Someone hiding out in his barn.

He knew everyone who lived in his Texas hometown. Horseback Hollow was the polar opposite of a metropolis. If someone there wanted something, they’d have come to his face, not skulk around in the middle of the night inside his barn.

His hand tightened around the sturdy handle. His focus followed the rustling sound and he took a silent step closer to it. “Come on out now, because if you don’t, I promise you won’t like what’s gonna happen.”

The faint rustle became a scuffling sound, then the darkness in front of him gathered into a small form.

His wariness drained away. His tight grip relaxed. Just a kid.

He made a face and set aside the pitchfork. “What’d you do? Run away from home?” He’d tried that once, when he was seven. Hadn’t gotten far. His dad had hauled him home and would have tanned his butt if his mother hadn’t stepped in. “Never works, kid,” he advised. “Whatever you think you’re running from will always follow.”

The form shuffled closer; small, booted feet sliding into the faint moonlight, barely visible below the too-long hem of baggy pants. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” the shadow said.

Forget wariness. The voice didn’t belong to a child. It was feminine. Very British. And so damn familiar his guts twisted and his nerves frizzed like they wanted to bust out of his skin. A runaway would have been preferable to this. To her.

Amelia.

Her name blasted through his head, but he didn’t say a word and after a moment, she took another hesitant step closer. Moonlight crept from the dark boots up baggy pants, an untucked, oversize shirt that dwarfed her delicate figure, until finally, finally, illuminating the long neck, the pointed chin.

The first time that he’d seen her had been six months ago on New Year’s Eve, at a wedding for one of her newly discovered cousins, right there in Horseback Hollow. Her long dark hair had been twisted into a knot, reminding him vaguely of the dancers at the ballet that his mom had once dragged him and his sister to. The second time that he’d seen her months later at the end of April, had been at another wedding. Another cousin. And her hair had been tied up then, too.

But that second time, after dreaming about her since New Year’s, Quinn hadn’t just watched Amelia from a distance.

No.

He’d approached her. And through some miracle of fate—or so he’d thought at the time—later that night, he’d taken the pins from her hair and it had spilled down past her shoulders, gleaming and silky against her ivory skin.

He blocked off the memory. He’d had enough practice at it over the past two months that it should have been easy.

It wasn’t. It was the very reason he was prowling restlessly around in the middle of the night at all when he should have been sleeping.

“What the hell’d you do to your hair?”

She made a soft sound and lifted her hand to the side of the roughly chopped short hair sticking out from her head. She’d have looked like a boy if her delicate features weren’t so distinctively feminine. “It’s lovely to see you, too.” She moved her hand again, and it came away with the hair.

A wig. It was stupid to feel relieved, but he did.

She scrubbed the fingers of her other hand across her scalp, and her hair, the real stuff, slid down in a coil over one shoulder, as dark as the night sky. “It’s a wig,” she said, stating the obvious. Her voice was unsteady. “The second one, actually. The first was blond, but there were reporters at the airport, and—” She shook her head, breaking off.

That night—the night he’d twisted his hands in her hair and thought he’d tasted perfection on her lips—she’d talked about the reporters who had dogged her family’s footsteps for as long as she could remember. How she hated being in a fishbowl. How her life felt claustrophobic. How she envied his life on a ranch; the wide-open spaces, the wind at his back when he rode his horse.

Again, he pushed away the thoughts. He shoved his fingertips into the pockets of his jeans, wishing he could wipe away the memory of her silky hair sliding over his chest as they’d made love. “What are you doing here?”

“In your barn? Proving I’m better at remembering a Google Map than I thought.” She let out a nervous sound that was maybe supposed to be a laugh but could have been a sob.

“Not my barn,” he said tightly. “Here.”

She took a quick, audible breath. She was young. Seven years younger than his own thirty. Practically a girl. Except she wasn’t a girl. She was full-grown. Self-possessed. Aristocratic.

And now, she was hiding in his barn, stumbling around for words.

“Amelia,” he prompted sharply. He couldn’t pretend her unexpected appearance didn’t make him tense. Any more than she could hide the fact that she was clearly nervous. The way she kept shifting from one foot to the other, almost swaying, told him that.

“Yes. Right. The, um, the last time we spoke—”

“What are you doing here?” He didn’t want to rehash that phone conversation. It had been nearly two months ago. He didn’t want to think about what had precipitated it. Didn’t want to think about it and damn sure didn’t want to feel anything about it. Not that conversation, or whatever was making her so skittish now.

Her lips moved again but no sound came out. She lifted her hand to the side of her head again. Swayed almost imperceptibly.

And pitched forward.

He let out an oath, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest, and barely caught her limp body before it hit the ground at his feet.

He crouched beside her, carefully holding her. He caught her chin in his hand. She felt cold. And was out cold. “Amelia!”

Dim light or not, he could see that her lashes, so dark against her pale, pale cheeks, didn’t so much as flicker.

He rose, lifting her in his arms. It was easy. He routinely tossed around hay bales that weighed more than she did, and she seemed even thinner now than the night he’d replaced her fancy gown with his hands. She was neither short, nor tall. Pretty average height. But that was the only thing average about Amelia Fortune Chesterfield.

Everything else—

He shook his head, blowing out a breath and carried her out of the barn, not even bothering to pull the door closed though he’d likely come back in the morning to find that possum taking up residence there again. He aimed for his truck parked up by the house, about a hundred yards away, his stride fast and gaining speed as he went. The moonlight shone down on her, painting her face an even whiter hue, and her gleaming head bounced against his arm as he ran.

He could hardly breathe by the time he made it to his truck, and it wasn’t because he was out of shape. It was because the nearest hospital was in Lubbock, a good hour away.

He could deal with a lot of minor medical emergencies.

He couldn’t deal with an unconscious Amelia Fortune Chesterfield.

Adjusting his grip beneath her, he managed to get the door open with one hand and settled her on the seat.

Her head lolled limply to the side, quickly followed by her lax shoulders.

“Come on, princess,” he whispered, gently situating her again, holding her up long enough to get the safety belt clipped in place. The chest strap held her back against the seat and he started to draw his hands away from her waist and her shoulders so he could close the door, but her arm shifted slightly. Then her hand. Sliding over his, lighter than a breath but still enough to make the world seem to stop spinning.

“I’m not a princess,” she whispered almost inaudibly.

He exhaled roughly. She’d said the same thing that night, too.

Only then she’d been looking up at him through her lashes; a combination of innocence and sexiness that had gone to his head quicker than the finest whiskey.

Maybe she wasn’t a princess. But she was still the youngest daughter of Lady Josephine Fortune Chesterfield and the late Sir Simon John Chesterfield. And since it had come out last year that Horseback Hollow’s own resident Jeanne Marie Jones was a long-lost sister of Lady Josephine, the Chesterfield family was officially one of the town’s hottest topics. Even Quinn’s own sister, Jess, usually practical and definitely down-to-earth, had been struck royal-crazy. It had gotten so bad lately that he’d pretty much avoided her whenever he could, just so he wouldn’t have to listen to her jabber on about the latest news from across the pond.

And for the past few months, particularly, he couldn’t even visit the Superette in town to pick up his weekly milk and bread without seeing a magazine on the racks that mentioned Amelia in some way.

He took her hand and set it away from him, backing away to slam the truck door closed. He strode around the front and got in behind the wheel, not wanting to look at her, yet not being able to stop himself from doing so. The dome light shining on her face was more relentless than the moonlight, showing the dark circles under her eyes.

She looked ill.

He swiftly turned the key and started the engine. “I’m taking you to the hospital in Lubbock,” he said flatly.

She shifted, her hand reaching for his arm again. Her fingertips dug into his forearm with surprising strength for someone who’d nearly face-planted in the dirt. “I don’t need a hospital,” she said quickly. “Please.” Her voice broke.

“You need something.” He shrugged off her touch and steered the truck away from the house. “And you won’t find it here.”

She sucked in an audible breath again and even though he knew he was in the right, he still felt like a bastard.

“You fainted. You need a doctor.”

“No. I just... It’s just been a long trip. I haven’t eaten since, well since Heathrow, I guess.”

He wasn’t going to ask why. Wasn’t going to let himself care. She was just another faithless woman. He’d already graduated from that school and didn’t need another course. “First-class fare not up to your standards?”

She ignored his sarcasm. “I was in economy.” She plucked the collar of her shirt that was mud-colored in the truck’s light. “I was trying not to be noticed.” She turned away, looking out the side window. “For all the good that did. I managed to lose Ophelia Malone before I left London, but there were still two more photographers to take her place the second I landed.” She sighed. “I lost them in Dallas, but only because I changed my disguise and caught a bus.”

He nearly choked. “You rode a bus? From Dallas to Horseback Hollow?” It had to have taken hours. On top of the flight, she’d probably been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours. “You have no business riding around on a bus!”

She didn’t look at him, but even beneath the rough clothes that dwarfed her slender figure, he could tell she stiffened. “It’s a perfectly convenient mode of transportation,” she defended.

Sure. For people like him. He was a small-town rancher. She was the Amelia Fortune Chesterfield. And since the day she’d returned to England after her night dabbling with Quinn—after making him believe that she was going back to London only to attend to some royal duties and would quickly return to Horseback Hollow—she’d become one half of the engaged couple dubbed “Jamelia” by the media that dogged her steps.

Amelia Fortune Chesterfield was to marry James Banning in the most popular royal romance since the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge. Lord James Banning. A viscount, whatever the hell that was. A man who was her equal in wealth and family connections. A man who was slated for an even higher title, evidently, once Amelia was his wife. Earl something of something or other.

His sister had talked about it so many times, the facts ought to be tattooed on his brain.

His fingers strangled the steering wheel. “Wedding plans becoming so taxing that you had to run away from them?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.” He turned through the overhead arch bearing the iron Rocking-U sign and pressed harder on the gas. The highway was still a fair piece away, but once he hit that, it’d be smooth sailing. He’d leave her in capable medical hands and wash his hands of her, once and for all.

Somewhere inside his head, laughter mocked the notion. He’d been doing that so-called washing for the past two months and hadn’t gotten anywhere. There had to be something wrong with him that he couldn’t just file her away as a one-night stand where she belonged and be done with it.

“Please don’t take me to Lubbock,” she said huskily. “I don’t need a doctor. I just need some sleep. And some food.” She reached across as if she were going to touch his arm again, but curled her fingers into a fist instead, resting it on the console between their seats. “Drop me on the side of the road if you must. I’m begging you. Please, Quinn.”

He ground his molars together. Would he have had more resistance if she hadn’t said his name? “I’m not gonna drop you on the side of the damn road.”

He should take her to Jeanne’s. Recently discovered family or not, the woman was Amelia’s aunt. Jeanne would take her in. Even if it was the middle of the night.

He muttered an oath and pulled a U-turn there on the empty highway.

Maybe Amelia wouldn’t mind Jeanne’s questions, asked or unasked, but Quinn would. Particularly when he had unanswered questions of his own.

He didn’t look at her. “I’ll take you back to the Rocking-U. And then you can start talking.”

* * *

His voice was so hard.

His face so expressionless.

Amelia wrapped her arms around herself and tried to quell her trembling. She was so, so tired.

She’d foolishly thought that once she got back to Horseback Hollow, once she saw Quinn in person, everything would be all right.

She could explain. And he would understand.

He would take her in his arms, and everything would be perfect and as wonderful as it had been the night of her cousin Toby’s wedding. Quinn would know that there was only him. That there had only ever been him.

It had been the single thing keeping her going throughout the dreadful ordeal of getting to Horseback Hollow.

“You can start—” Quinn’s deep voice cut through her “—with explaining why you came to the Rocking-U at all.”

“I wanted to talk,” she whispered.

He gave her a long look. Animosity rolled off him in waves, a stark contrast to the tender warmth he’d shown her just six weeks earlier. “Yet so far you haven’t said anything new.”

She wanted to wring her hands. Such a silly, naive girl to think that her presence would be enough to make up for everything she hadn’t said that she should have. For everything she hadn’t done that she should have.

“What did Banning do? Disagree over china patterns? So you run away again to the States to bring him to heel? Your last trip here was pretty effective. Ended up with a royal engagement the second you got back home. Or maybe you’re just in the mood for one more final fling before the ‘I do’s’ get said.”

“I told you weeks ago that there’s no engagement,” she reminded carefully. After a week of the frantic telephone messages she’d left for him once she’d arrived in London, he’d finally returned her call. She’d tried to explain to him then about the media frenzy that had greeted her at the airport when she’d returned from Toby’s wedding.

Reporters shouting their congratulations on her engagement to James. Cameras flashing in her eyes. She’d been blindsided by the unwanted attention as much as she’d been blindsided by news of an engagement she and James had discussed, but had never agreed to.

He grunted derisively. “And I don’t believe you any more now than I did when you said it the first time. You came to Horseback Hollow two months ago and you had sex with the poor dumb cowboy who didn’t know enough to recognize things for what they were. Your little walk on the wild side, I guess, before settling down all nice and proper with the English earl.”

“James isn’t an earl yet.” Which was the furthest thing from what she wanted to say.

“I don’t give a damn what he is or isn’t.” He slowed to make the turn through the iron archway, but the tires still kicked out an angry, arching spit of gravel. “He’s your fiancé. That’s the only thing I have to know. And as good as you were in the sack, princess, I’m not interested in a repeat performance.”

She bit down on her tongue to keep from gasping and stared hard out the side window until the tears pushing behind her eyes subsided. They hadn’t ever made it to a “sack,” as he so crudely put it. They’d made love under the moonlight in a field of green, surrounded by trees, singing crickets and croaking frogs. She’d slept in his arms under the stars and wakened at dawn to chirping birds and his kisses.

It had been magical.

“It was six weeks ago,” she whispered.

He still managed to hear. “Six. Eight. Whatever it was, it no longer matters to me. You want to screw around with a cowboy, do it on someone else’s ranch.”

She snapped her head around, looking at him. Even though it was dark as pitch, and the only light came from the glow of his pickup truck’s instrument panel, she still knew every inch of his face. Every detail. From the dark brown hair springing thickly back from his sun-bronzed forehead to the spiky lashes surrounding his hazel eyes to his angular jaw. She knew his quiet smile. The easy way he held his tall, muscular body.

“Don’t do that,” she said sharply. “Don’t cheapen what we had.”

“What we had, princess—” he drew out the word in a mocking British accent “—was a one-night stand. And the next day, you returned to the loving arms of your intended. Poor bastard. Does he know what he’s getting?” He pulled to a stop in front of a modestly sized two-storied house and turned off the engine. “Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he’s just happy to merge one highfalutin’ family with another and fidelity doesn’t matter one little bit.”

“He’s not my fiancé!”

“And that’s what you came all the way here to talk about,” he said skeptically. “To claim that he’s not your fiancé? While every newspaper and trashy tabloid in print, every gossipy website that exists, is dissecting the great ‘Jamelia’ romance. If he’s not your fiancé, why the hell aren’t there any quotes from you saying that? Everything else about the two of you has been chronicled across the world. Seems to me there have been plenty of opportunities for you to state otherwise.” He stared into her face for a long moment, then shook his head and shoved open his truck door. “We had this same conversation two months ago on the phone.” His voice was flat. “Should have saved yourself a ten-hour flight in coach.” He slammed the door shut and started walking toward the house.

“Six weeks ago,” she whispered again

But of course he didn’t hear her this time.

Chapter Two

Amelia finally got out of the truck and headed slowly toward him. Quinn watched only long enough to assure himself that she wasn’t going to collapse again, before he turned toward the house once more. He wanted her in his home about as much as he wanted holes drilled into his head.

It was hard enough to forget about her when she’d never stepped foot in his place. Now she was going to do just that. And his need to keep her out of his thoughts was going to become even more impossible.

He shoved open the front door and waited for her to finish crossing the gravel drive. Her dark hair gleamed in the moonlight, reminding him of the last time. Only then the long strands had been fanned out around her head, and her face bathed in ecstasy.

He clenched his teeth and looked at the scuffed toes of his leather boots. The second she crossed the threshold, he moved away. “Close the door behind you.”

His steps sounded hollow on the wood floor as he headed through the house to the kitchen at the back and he heard the soft latch of the front door closing behind him.

He slapped his palm against the wall switch, flooding the kitchen with unforgiving light, and grabbed the plastic-wrapped loaf of bread from where he’d last tossed it on the counter. He yanked open a drawer, grabbed a knife, slammed the drawer shut and yanked open the fridge. Pulled a few things out and slammed that door shut, too.

None of it helped.

She was still in his damned house.

Another woman he’d let himself believe in.

Didn’t matter that he knew he was to blame for that particular situation. He’d barely known Amelia. And he’d known his ex-wife, Carrie, for years. Yet he’d made the same mistake with them both.

Trusting that he was the one.

The only one.

He carelessly swiped mayonnaise on the two slices of bread, slapped a slice of cheese on top, followed by a jumble of deli-sliced turkey.

Every cell he possessed knew the minute Amelia stepped into the kitchen behind him, though she didn’t make a sound. She was as ghostly quiet as she was ghostly pale.

He dropped the other slice of bread on top of the turkey and managed not to smash it down out of sheer frustration. He tossed the knife in the sink next to his elbow and it clattered noisily.

He turned and faced her, choking down the urge to take her shoulders and urge her into a chair.

She looked worse than ill.

The shadows under her eyes were nearly purple. The oversize shirt—an uglier color than the contents of his youngest nephew’s diaper the last time he’d been stuck changing it—had slipped down one of her shoulders and her collarbone stuck out too sharp against her pale skin.

It wasn’t just a day of traveling—by means he damn sure knew she wasn’t used to—taking its toll.

“What the hell have you done to yourself?”

Her colorless lips parted slightly. She stared up at him and her eyes—dark, dark brown and enormous in her small triangular face—shimmered wetly. “You’re so angry,” she whispered.

Angry didn’t begin to cover it. He was pissed as hell. Frustrated beyond belief. And completely disillusioned with his judgment where women were concerned.

Especially this woman, because dammit all to hell, there was still a part of him that wanted to believe in her. Believe the things she’d said that night. Believe the things she’d made him feel that night.

And he knew better.

“I should have taken you to the hospital,” he said flatly. “Have you had the flu or something?” God forbid she was suffering anything worse.

Her lashes lowered and she reached out a visibly unsteady hand for one of the wood chairs situated around his small, square table. But she only braced herself; she didn’t sit. “I haven’t been sick. I told you, I just need food and a little rest.”

“A little?” He snorted and nudged her down onto the chair seat. A nudge is all it took, too, because her legs folded way too easily. He would have termed it collapsing, except she did even that with grace.

As soon as she was sitting, he took his hand away, curling his fingers against his palm.

Whether to squeeze away the feel of her fragile shoulder, or to hold on to it, he wasn’t sure.

And that just pissed him off even more.

He grabbed the sandwich, and ignoring every bit of manners his mom had ever tried to teach him, plopped it on the bare table surface in front of her. No napkin. No plate.

If she wanted to toy around with a cowboy, she’d better learn there weren’t going to be any niceties. He almost wished he chewed, because the notion of spitting tobacco juice out just then was stupidly appealing.

She, of course, not-a-princess that she was, ignored his cavalier behavior and turned her knees beneath the table, sitting with a straight back despite her obvious exhaustion. Then she picked up the sandwich with as much care as if it were crustless, cut into fancy shapes and served up on priceless silver. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

He wanted to slam his head against a wall.

Every curse he knew filled his head, all of them directed right at his own miserable hide. He grimly pulled a sturdy white plate from the cupboard and set it on the table. He didn’t have napkins, but he tore a paper towel off the roll, folded it in half and set it next to the plate. Then, feeling her big brown eyes following him, he grabbed a clean glass and filled it with cold tap water. She was surely used to the stuff that came in fancy tall bottles, but there was no better water around than what came from the Rocking-U well. Aside from water, he had milk and beer. He wasn’t sure the milk wasn’t sour by now, and she definitely wasn’t the type to drink beer.

“Thank you,” she said again, after taking a long sip of the water. “I don’t mean to put you to any trouble.”

He folded his arms across his chest and dragged his gaze away from the soft glisten of moisture lingering on her full, lower lip. “Shouldn’t have gotten on the airplane, then.” Much less a bus.

She looked away.

For about the tenth time since he’d found her hiding in his barn, he felt like he’d kicked a kitten. Then ground his boot heel down on top of it for good measure.

“Eat.” He sounded abrupt and didn’t care. “I’ll get a bed ready for you.”

She nodded, still not looking at him. “Thank—” Her voice broke off for a moment. “You,” she finished faintly.

That politeness of hers would be the end of him.

He left the kitchen with embarrassing haste and stomped up the stairs to the room at the end of the hall. He stopped in the doorway and stared at the bed.

It was the only one in the house.

It was his.

“You’re a freaking idiot,” he muttered to himself as he crossed the room and yanked the white sheets that were twisted and tangled and as much off the bed as they were on into some semblance of order. He’d have changed the sheets if he owned more than one set.

Once she was gone, he’d have to burn the damn things and buy different ones. For that matter, he might as well replace the whole bed. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since learning she’d gotten engaged to that other guy within hours of leaving his arms. He was pretty sure that sleeping was only going to get harder from here on out.

He realized he was strangling his pillow between his fists, and slapped it down on the bed.

It was summertime, so he hadn’t personally been bothering with much more than a sheet, but he unearthed the quilt that his mother had made for him years earlier from where he’d hidden it away in the closet after Carrie left him, and spread it out on top of the sheets. It smelled vaguely of mothballs, but it was better than nothing.

Then he shoved the ragged paperback book he’d been reading from the top of the nightstand into the drawer, effectively removing the only personal item in sight, and left the room.

He went back downstairs.

She was still sitting at the table in his kitchen, her back straight as a ruler, her elbows nowhere near the table. She’d finished the sandwich, though, and was folding the paper towel into intricate shapes. Not for the first time, he eyed her slender fingers, bare of rings, and reminded himself that the absence of a diamond ring didn’t mean anything.

When she heard him, she stood. “I should go to Aunt Jeanne’s.”

“Yes.” He wasn’t going to lie. She’d already done enough of that for them both. “But it’s after midnight. No point in ruining someone else’s night’s sleep, too. And since Horseback Hollow isn’t blessed with any motels, much less an establishment up to your standards,” he added even though she was too cultured to say so, “you’re stuck with what I have.” He eyed her. “Bedroom’s upstairs. Do you have enough stuffing left in you to make it up them, or do I need to put you over my shoulder?”

Her ghostly pale face took on a little color at that. “I’m not a sack of feed,” she said, almost crisply, and headed past him through the doorway.

His house wasn’t large. The staircase was right there to the left of the front door and his grandmother’s piano. She headed straight to it, closed her slender fingers over the wood banister and started up. The ugly shirt she wore hung over her hips, midway down the thighs of her baggy jeans.

He still had to look away from the sway of her hips as she took the steps. “Room’s at the end of the hall,” he said after her. “Bathroom’s next to it.”

Manners might have had him escorting her up there.

Self-preservation kept him standing right where he was.

“Yell if you need something,” he added gruffly.

She stopped, nearly at the top of the stairs, and looked back at him. Her hair slid over her shoulder.

Purple shadows, ghostly pale and badly fitting clothes or not, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and looking at her was a physical pain.

“I need you not to hate me,” she said softly.

His jaw tightened right along with the band across his chest that made it hard to breathe. “I don’t hate you, Amelia.”

Her huge eyes stared at him. They were haunting, those eyes.

“I don’t feel anything,” he finished.

It was the biggest lie he’d ever told in his life.

* * *

Amelia’s knees wobbled and she tightened her grip on the smooth, warm wooden banister. Quinn could say what he wanted, but the expression on his face told another story.

And she had only herself to blame.

No words came to mind that were appropriate for the situation. Even if there were words, she wasn’t sure her tight throat would have allowed her to voice them. So she just gave him an awkward nod and headed up the remaining stairs. Because what else was there to do but go forward?

There was no going back.

He’d made that painfully clear more than once and her coming to Horseback Hollow to see him face-to-face hadn’t changed a single thing.

At the landing, the room he spoke of was obvious. Straight at the end of the hall.

The door was open and through it she could see the foot of a quilt-covered bed.

She pushed back her shoulders despite her weariness, and headed toward it. If she weren’t feeling devastated to her core, she would have gobbled up every detail of his home as she walked along the wooden-floored hallway. Would have struggled not to let her intense curiosity where he was concerned overtake her. Would have wondered how each nook and cranny reflected Quinn. The man she’d fallen head over heels in love with on the foolish basis of a few dances at a wedding reception.

And a night of lovemaking after.

The thought was unbearable and she pushed it away.

She’d deal with that later.

She stopped at the bathroom briefly and shuddered over her pallid reflection in the oval mirror that hung over a classic pedestal sink when she washed her hands. It was no wonder he’d stared at her with such horror.

She looked hideous.

Not at all the way she’d looked the night he’d stopped next to her at Toby’s wedding reception, smiled quietly and asked if she cared to dance. She’d looked as good that day as her gawky self was capable of looking.

But when Quinn took her in his arms and slowly circled around the outdoor dance floor with her to the croon of Etta James, for the first time, she’d felt beautiful. All because of the way he’d looked at her.

Tears burned behind her eyes again and she quickly left the bathroom behind, hurrying the remaining few feet into the bedroom. She shut the door soundlessly, leaned back against it and slid down it until her bottom hit the floor.

Then she drew up her knees and pressed her forehead to them.

He believed their lovemaking had been some sort of last fling for her, before settling down with Jimmy, whom she’d been seeing during the months before she’d spontaneously attended Toby’s wedding. Quinn had accused her of that during that dreadful phone conversation. In the weeks since, he’d obviously not changed his opinion.

So how was she ever going to be able to tell him that she was pregnant?

With his child?

If he accused her of lying about that, too, she wasn’t sure she could survive it.

She sat there, her sorrow too deep for tears, until her bottom felt numb. Then feeling ancient, she shifted onto her knees and pushed herself to her aching feet. The boots she’d borrowed from Molly, one of her mother’s junior secretaries whom Amelia trusted, were too wide and too short. They, along with the ill-fitting jeans and the shirt, belonged to Molly’s teenage brother as had the other set of clothes she’d started out in. They’d been left, shoved deep in the rubbish, at the airport in Dallas alongside the blond wig and the knapsack in which she’d carried their replacements.

She dragged her passport out of the back pocket and set it on the rustic wooden nightstand. Even though Molly had helped with the disguises, neither one of them had been able to think of a way around traveling under Amelia’s own name. Not with security standards being what they were. All she’d come with had been the passport, her credit card and a small wad of American currency tucked among the well-stamped pages of her passport. Molly had insisted on the credit card, though Amelia had wanted to leave it behind. She knew cash was untraceable, while a credit card wasn’t, and she’d stuck to it. The only thing she’d purchased had been the bus fare from Dallas. Once she’d reached Lubbock, she’d hitched a ride with a trucker as far as the outskirts of Horseback Hollow. Then, using the directions she’d memorized from Molly, she’d walked the rest of the way to what she’d hoped was Quinn’s ranch. But in her exhaustion and the darkness she hadn’t been certain. So she’d hidden in the barn, intending to rest until daylight.

Her head swam dizzily and she quickly sat at the foot of the bed, the mattress springs giving the faintest of creaks. She closed her eyes, breathing evenly. She didn’t know whether to blame the light-headedness on pregnancy or exhaustion. Aside from her missed period, she hadn’t experienced any other signs that she was carrying a baby. And if it hadn’t been for Molly who’d suggested that her irregularity might not be a result of stress as Amelia had believed at first, she probably wouldn’t know even now that she was carrying Quinn’s baby. She’d still be thinking she was just stressed over the whole engagement fiasco.

Why, oh, why hadn’t she spoken up when those reporters greeted her at the airport six weeks ago, clamoring for details about her engagement to James? Why had she just put up her hand to shield her face and raced alongside her driver until reaching the relative sanctuary of the Town Car? She hadn’t even dared to phone James until she’d gotten home because she feared having her cell phone hacked again. Even though it had happened well over a year ago, the sense of invasion still lived on.

If she’d only have spoken up, denied the engagement to the press right then and there, she wouldn’t be in this situation now. After the initial embarrassment, James’s situation with his family would have ironed itself out in time.

Most important, though, Quinn wouldn’t have any reason to hate her.

She would have returned to him weeks ago exactly as they’d planned while lying together atop a horse blanket with an endless expanse of stars twinkling over them. Then, learning she was pregnant would have been something for them to discover together.

If only.

Her light-headedness was easing, though she really felt no better. But she opened her eyes and slowly pulled off the boots and socks and dropped them on the floor next to the bed. She wiggled her toes until some feeling returned and flopped back on the mattress.

The springs gave a faint squeak again.

It was a comforting sound and, too tired to even finish undressing, she dragged one of the two pillows at the head of the bed to her cheek and closed her eyes once more.

Things would be better in the morning.

They had to be.

* * *

When there were no more sounds, faint though they were, coming from his room upstairs, Quinn finally left the kitchen where he’d been hiding out. He left the house and walked back down to the barn with only the moonlight for company. He closed the door and even though there’d be endless chores to be done before the sun came up and he ought to be trying to sleep the last few hours before then, his aimless footsteps carried him even farther from the house.

But he kept glancing back over his shoulder. Looking at the dark windows on the upper story that belonged to his bedroom. Amelia had eaten the sandwich. But did that really mean anything?

If she fainted again how would he even know?

She’d been raised in the lap of luxury. First-class flights and luxury limousines driven by guys wearing suits and caps. Not economy class and bus tickets and God knew what.

Clawing his fingers through his hair, he turned back to the house. It wasn’t the house that he and Jess had grown up in. That had burned nearly to the ground when Quinn was fifteen, destroying almost everything they’d owned. The same year his dad had already succeeded in literally working to death on the Rocking-U, trying to prove himself as good a rancher as the father who’d never acknowledged him. Jess, five years older, was already off and married to Mac with a baby on the way. Ursula, his mom, would have sold off the ranch then if she’d have been able to find an interested buyer other than her dead husband’s hated father. But she’d only been able to find takers for the livestock.

Despite Quinn’s noisy protests, she’d moved the two of them into a two-bedroom trailer on the outskirts of town and there they’d lived until Quinn graduated from high school. Then she’d packed him off to college, packed up her clothes and moved away from the town that had only ever seemed to bring her unhappiness. Now she lived in Dallas in one of those “active adult” neighborhoods where she played bridge and tennis. She had a circle of friends she liked, and she was happy.

Not Quinn. The moment he could, he’d headed back to Horseback Hollow and the fallen-down, barren Rocking-U. He’d had a few years of college under his belt—gained only through scholarships and part-time jobs doing anything and everything he could pick up—and a new bride on his arm.

He was going to do what his father had never been able to do. Make the Rocking-U a real success.

At least one goal had been achieved.

He’d built the small house, though it had cost him two years and a wife along the way. He’d had his grandmother’s piano restored and the dregs of the old, burned house hauled away. He’d shored up broken down fences and a decrepit barn. He’d built a herd. It was small, but it was prime Texas Longhorn.

He’d made something he could be proud of. Something his father had never achieved but still would have been proud of and something his father’s father could choke on every time he thought about the people he liked to pretend never existed.

And when Quinn had danced with Amelia at a wedding reception six weeks ago, he’d let himself believe that there was a woman who could love his life the same way that he did.

All he’d succeeded in doing, though, was proving that he was Judd Drummond’s son, through and through. A damn stupid dreamer.

He went back into the silent house. He had a couch in the living room. Too short and too hard to make much of a bed, but it was that or the floor. He turned off the light and sat down and worked off his boots, dropping them on the floor.

He couldn’t hear anything from upstairs.

He stretched out as well as he could. Dropped his forearm over his eyes.

Listened to the rhythmic tick of the antique clock sitting on the fireplace mantel across the room.

What if she really was sick?

“Dammit,” he muttered, and jackknifed to his feet. Moving comfortably in the darkness, he went to the stairs and started up. At the top, he headed to the end of the hall and closed his hand around the doorknob leading into his bedroom.

But he hesitated.

Called himself a damned fool. He ought to go back downstairs and try to redeem what little he could of the night in sleep.

Only sleeping was a laughable notion.

He’d just glance inside the room. Make sure she was sleeping okay.

He turned the knob. Nudged open the door.

He could see the dark bump of her lying, unmoving, on his bed. He stepped closer and his stockinged toes knocked into something on the floor. They bumped and thumped.

Her shoes.

It was a good thing he’d never aspired to a life of crime when he couldn’t even sneak into his own bedroom without making a commotion. He’d probably been quieter when he’d found her in his damn barn.

Despite the seemingly loud noise, though, the form on the bed didn’t move. He ignored the sound of his pulse throbbing in his ears until he was able to hear her soft breathing.

Fine. All good.

He had no excuse to linger. Not in a dark room in the middle of the night with another man’s fiancée. There were lines a man didn’t cross, and that was one of them.

It should have been easy to leave the room. And because it wasn’t, he grimaced and turned.

Avoiding her shoes on the floor, he left the room more quietly than he’d entered. He returned to the couch. Threw himself down on it again.

He’d take her to her aunt’s in the morning. After she woke.

And what Amelia did after that wasn’t anything he was going to let himself care about.

Chapter Three

Quinn stared at the empty bed.

Amelia was gone.

It was only nine in the morning, and sometime between when he’d left the house at dawn and when he’d returned again just now, she’d disappeared.

If not for the wig that he’d found on the ground inside his barn door, he might have wondered if he’d hallucinated the entire thing.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out she’d beat him to the punch in calling her aunt. One phone call to Jeanne, or to any one of the newfound cousins, and rescue would have easily arrived within an hour.

He walked into the bedroom.

The bed looked exactly the way it had when he’d tossed the quilt on top of it, before she’d gone to bed. Maybe a little neater. Maybe a lot neater.

He’d also thought her presence would linger after she was gone. But it didn’t.

The room—hell, the entire house—felt deathly still. Empty.

That was the legacy she’d left that he’d have to live with.

He tossed the wig on the foot of the bed and rubbed the back of his neck. He had a crick in it from sleeping—or pretending to—on the too-short couch.

It shouldn’t matter that she’d left without a word. Snuck out while his back was essentially turned. He hadn’t wanted her there in the first place. And obviously, her need to “talk” hadn’t been so strong, after all.

“Gone and good riddance,” he muttered.

Then, because he smelled more like cow than man and Jess would give him a rash of crap about it when he showed up at his nephew’s baseball game in Vicker’s Corners that afternoon, he grabbed a shower and changed into clean jeans and T-shirt.

In the kitchen, the paper towel that he’d given Amelia was still sitting on the table where she’d left it, all folded up. He grabbed it to toss it in the trash, but hesitated.

She hadn’t just folded the paper into a bunch of complicated triangles. She’d fashioned it into a sort of bird. As if the cheap paper towel was some fancy origami.

I have lots of useless talents.

The memory of her words swam in his head.

She’d told him that, and more, when they’d lain under the stars. How she had a degree in literature that she didn’t think she’d ever use. How she spoke several languages even though she didn’t much care for traveling. How she could play the piano and the harp well enough to play at some of the family’s royal functions, but suffered stage fright badly enough that having to do so was agonizing.

He pinched the bridge of his nose where a pain was forming in his head and dropped the paper bird on the table again, before grabbing his Resistol hat off the peg by the back door and heading out.

He paid Tanya Fremont, one of the students where Jess and Mac taught high school, to clean his house once a week and she’d be there that weekend.

She could take care of the trash.

* * *

“Aunt Jeanne, really?” Amelia lifted a glossy tabloid magazine off the coffee table where it was sitting and held it up. “I can’t believe you purchase these things.”

Her aunt’s blue eyes were wry as she sat down beside Amelia on the couch. She set the two mugs of herbal tea she was carrying on the coffee table and plucked the glossy out of Amelia’s hands. She spread it over the knees of her faded blue jeans and tapped the small picture on the upper corner of the cover. “It had a picture of you and Lucie,” she defended. “You and your sister looked so pretty. I thought I’d clip it out and put it in my scrapbook.”

Amelia was touched by the thought even though she deplored being on the magazine cover. The photo was from the dedication of one of the orphanages her mother helped establish. Amelia recognized the dress she’d worn to the ceremony. “I don’t even want to know what the article said.” Undoubtedly, it had not focused on the good works of Lady Josephine or Lucie’s latest accomplishments, but the pending nuptials of Amelia and Lord James Banning, the Viscount St. Allen and heir apparent to the Earl of Estingwood.

“No article,” Jeanne Marie corrected. “Not really. Just a small paragraph from close friends—” she sketched quotes in the air “—of ‘Jamelia’ that the wedding date had been set, but was being kept under wraps for now to preserve your and James’s privacy.”

“There is no wedding date,” Amelia blurted. She slumped back on the couch.

“Oh?” Jeanne Marie leaned forward and set the magazine on the coffee table. She picked up her tea and studied Amelia over the rim of the sturdy mug with eyes that were eerily similar to Amelia’s mother.

That was to be expected, she supposed, since Josephine and Jeanne Marie were two thirds of a set of triplets. What wasn’t the norm, was the fact that the siblings had only recently discovered one another. Amelia’s mother hadn’t even known that she’d been adopted until she’d met Jeanne Marie Fortune Jones and their triplet brother, James Marshall Fortune. He was the only reason the trio had found one another after having been separated as young children. There was even another older brother, John Fortune, to add to the new family tree.

Amelia realized her aunt wasn’t gaping at her over the news there was to be no wedding. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

Jeanne Marie lifted one shoulder. “Well, honey. You are here.” And again, even though her words were full of Texas drawl, her mild, somewhat ironic lilt was exactly the same as Josephine’s entirely proper Brit would have been.

It was still startling to Amelia, even after meeting her aunt nearly a year ago.

“I’m assuming you have a good reason for not announcing you broke things off with your young man in England?”

“It’s complicated,” she murmured, even as she felt guilty for leaving her aunt under the impression that there had ever been something to break off in the first place. James had been as much a victim of their supposed engagement as she, since the presumptuous announcement had been issued by his father. But once it had been, and Amelia hadn’t denied it, James had been doing his level best to convince her to make it a reality. Under immense family pressure to make a suitable marriage, he’d given up hope of a match with the girl he really loved—Astrid, who sold coffee at the stand in his building—and tried giving Amelia a family ring in hopes that she’d come around, though she’d refused to take it. “Jimmy and I have known each other a long time.”

While she really only knew Quinn in the biblical sense. The irony of it all was heartbreaking.

“Sometimes a little distance has a way of uncomplicating things,” Jeanne said. “And as delighted as I am to have you here, it does tend to raise a few questions. Particularly havin’ to get you from Quinn Drummond’s place practically before sunup. And havin’ you dressed like you are.”

Amelia’s fingers pleated the hem of the oversize shirt. “I was trying to avoid paparazzi.”

“So you said while we were driving here.” Jeanne Marie finally set down the mug. She was obviously as disinterested in her tea as Amelia was. “What’s going on between you and Quinn?”

“Nothing.” She felt heat rise up her throat.

“And that’s why you called me from his house at seven in the morning. Because nothing is going on between you two.” Jeanne Marie’s lips curved. “In my day, that sort of nothing usually led to a shotgun and a stand-up in front of a preacher whether there was another suitor in the wings or not.”

Amelia winced.

Her aunt tsked, her expression going from wry to concerned in the blink of an eye. “Oh, honey.” She closed her warm hands around Amelia’s fidgeting fingers. “Whatever’s upsetting you can be worked out. I promise you that.”

Amelia managed a weak smile. “I appreciate the thought, Aunt Jeanne. But I grew up with my father always telling us not to make promises we couldn’t keep.”

Jeanne Marie squeezed her hand. “I wish I’d have had a chance to meet your daddy. Your mama says he was the love of her life.”

Amelia nodded. Her father had died several years ago, but his loss was still sharp. “He was.” She couldn’t contain a yawn and covered it with her hand. Despite having slept several hours at Quinn’s, she still could hardly keep her eyes open. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m the sorry one,” Jeanne Marie said. She patted Amelia’s hand and pushed to her feet. “You’re exhausted, honey. You need to be in bed, not sitting here answering questions.”

It took all the energy Amelia possessed to stand, also. “Are you certain I’m not imposing?”

Jeanne Marie laughed. “There’s no such thing as imposing among family, honey. Deke and I raised seven kids in this house. Now they’re all off and living their own lives. So it’s nice to have one of those empty rooms filled again.”

“You’re very kind.” She followed her aunt along the hall and up the stairs to a corner bedroom with windows on two walls. Amelia remembered the room from her first visit to Horseback Hollow six months ago, though it had been her mother who’d been assigned to it then. It was obviously a guest room. Simply but comfortably furnished with a bed covered in a quilt with fading pastel stitching that was all the lovelier for its graceful aging, a side table with dried cat’s tails sticking out of an old-fashioned milk bottle, and a sturdy oak wardrobe. White curtains, nearly translucent, hung open at the square windows and moved gently in the warm morning breeze.

“This used to be Galen’s room,” Jeanne Marie said. “Being the oldest, there was a time he liked lording it over the others that he had the largest room.” She crossed to the windows to begin lowering the shades. “Would have put you in here back when you came for Toby’s wedding in April, but James Marshall and Clara were using it.”

“Leave the windows open,” Amelia begged quickly. “Please.”

“The sunlight won’t keep you awake?”

She self-consciously tugged at her ugly shirt. Light was the least disturbing thing she could think of at the moment. And better to have sunlight than darkness while the memories of the last time she’d been at her aunt’s home were caving in on her. “The breeze is too lovely to shut out.”

Jeanne Marie dropped her hands. She opened the wardrobe and pulled out two bed pillows from the shelf inside and set them on the bed. “Bathroom is next door,” she reminded. “I’ll make sure you have fresh towels. And I’m sure that Delaney or Stacey left behind some clothes that should fit you. They might be boxed up by now, but I’ll try to scare up something for you to wear once you’re rested.”

Her welcome was so very different than Quinn’s, deserved or not, and Amelia’s eyes stung.

She cried much too easily these days. “Thank you.” She sat on the foot of the bed and tried not to think about sitting on the bed at Quinn’s.

She’d thought that had been a guest room, too. Until she’d awakened early that morning and had gone looking for him. She’d done what she hadn’t had the energy for the night before. The rooms upstairs were spacious and full of windows and nothing else. Almost like they were stuck in time. Waiting for a reason to be filled with furniture. With family. Downstairs, he had a den with a plain wooden desk and an older style computer on it. The living room had a couch, a television that looked older than the computer, and a gleaming black upright piano. She’d drawn her fingers lightly over the keys, finding it perfectly tuned.

What she hadn’t found was Quinn. Not only had he been nowhere to be found inside the two-story house, but she’d seen for herself that his home possessed only a single bed.

Which, regardless of his feelings, he’d given up for her.

* * *

Jeanne Marie watched the tangled expressions crossing her new niece’s delicate features and controlled the urge to take the girl into her arms and rock her just as she would have her own daughters. “We’ve got most of the crew coming for supper tonight. But you just come on down whenever you’re ready,” she said comfortingly. “And don’t you worry about me spilling your personal beans to your cousins. You can do that when you’re good and ready.” Then she kissed Amelia’s forehead and left the room, closing the door behind her.

She set out fresh towels in the bathroom, then headed downstairs to the kitchen again and stopped in surprise at the sight of her husband just coming in from the back. “I thought you’d be out all morning.”

“Thought I could get the engine on that old Deere going, but I need a couple more parts.” He tossed his sweat-stained cowboy hat aside and rubbed his fingers through his thick, iron-gray hair before reaching out a long arm and hooking her around the waist. “Which leaves me the chance for some morning delight with my wife before I drive over to Vicker’s Corners.”

Jeanne Marie laughed softly, rubbing her arms over his broad shoulders. How she loved this man who’d owned her heart from the moment they’d met. “We’re not alone in the house,” she warned.

His eyebrow lifted. “I didn’t notice any cars out front. Who’s come this early for supper? Can’t be Toby and his brood.” He grinned faintly. “Those kids’ve been coming out of their shells real nice lately.”

“And they’ll continue to do so,” Jeanne agreed, slightly distracted by the way Deke’s wide palms were drifting from her waist down over the seat of her jeans. “As long as no more hitches come up to stop Toby and Angie adopting them.” Their middle son and his new wife were trying to adopt three kids he’d been fostering for the past eight months and the process hadn’t exactly been smooth so far.

Her blood was turning warm and she grabbed his wide wrists, redirecting his hands to less distracting territory. “Amelia’s here.”

His brows pulled together for a second. “Amelia? Josephine’s youngest girl?”

“We don’t know another Amelia,” Jeanne Marie said dryly.

His hands fell away. He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. “Fortunes are everywhere,” he murmured.

She knew his face as well as she knew her own. She had happily been Jeanne Marie Jones for forty years. But learning that she had siblings out there, learning that she had a blood connection to others in this world besides the children of his that she’d borne, had filled a void inside her that Deke had never quite been able to understand. Even though her adoptive parents had loved her, and she them, not knowing where she’d come from had always pulled at her.

And now she knew.

And though Deke hadn’t protested when she’d added Fortune to her own name, she knew also that it hadn’t been entirely easy for him. When their kids followed suit, it had gotten even harder for him to swallow.

No. The advent of the Fortunes to the Jones’s lives hadn’t been easy. And maybe it would have been easier if James had gone about things differently when he’d tracked her down. Her newfound brother was a self-made business tycoon used to having the world fall into place exactly the way he planned and he’d not only upset his own family in the process, he’d sent Jeanne Marie’s family reeling, too, when he’d tried to give her part of his significant fortune.

She’d turned down the money, of course. It didn’t matter to her that all of her siblings turned out to be ridiculously wealthy while she was not. She and Deke had a good life. A happy life. One blessed with invaluable wealth for the very reason that it had nothing to do with any amount of dollars and cents.

Convincing her pridefully suspicious husband that the only fortune that mattered to her was the name Fortune, however, had been a long process.

One that was still obviously in the works, judging by Deke’s stoic expression.

“How long’s she staying?” he asked.

“I have no idea. The girl came here to figure some things out, I believe.” Because she always felt better being busy, she pulled a few peaches out of the basket on the counter and grabbed a knife. She’d already made a chocolate cake for dessert for that evening, but Deke always loved a fresh peach pie. And even after forty years of marriage, a man still needed to know he was in the forefront of his wife’s thoughts. “Do you think she should stay somewhere else?”

He frowned quickly. “No. She’s family.” His eyes met hers. “I get it, Jeanne Marie.”

Her faint tension eased. He might not exactly understand the way she’d taken on the Fortune name, but he did get “it” when it came to family. Nothing was more important to him, even if he didn’t always have an easy time showing it.

“She’d been at Quinn Drummond’s,” she added. Then told him everything that had happened since Amelia had called. She pointed the tip of the paring knife she was using to peel the peaches at Deke. “I don’t care what everyone’s saying about her and that Banning fella.” She deftly removed the peach pit and sliced the ripe fruit into a bowl. “There’s definitely something going on between her and Quinn.”

“I’d think Quinn’s too set in his ways to be interested in a highbred filly like Amelia.” Deke reached past her to filch a juicy slice. “’Specially after the merry chase that ex-wife of his led him on. She was a piece of work, remember?”

She did and she made a face. “That was years ago.”

“Yup. Having your wife leave you for her old boyfriend leaves a stain, though. Least I think it would. Now he’s interested in a girl the world thinks is engaged?” He stole another slice, avoiding the hand she batted at him.

“You keep eating the slices, I won’t have enough left to make a pie for you,” she warned.

His teeth flashed, his good humor evidently restored. He popped the morsel in his mouth and gave her a smacking kiss that tasted of him and sweet, sweet summer. It melted her heart as surely now as it had the first time he’d kissed her when they were little more than kids.

Then he grabbed his hat and plopped it on his head again. “I’ll stop at the fruit stand on my way back from Vicker’s Corners,” he said, giving her a quick wink. “Replenish the stock.” He started to push open the back screen door.

“Deke—”

He hesitated.

“You’re the love of my life, you know.”

His smile was slow and sweeter than the peaches. “And you’re mine. That’s what gets me up in the morning every day, darlin’.”

Then he pushed through the screen door. It squeaked slightly, and shut with a soft slap.

Jeanne Marie pressed her hand to her chest for a moment. “Oh, my.” She blew out a breath and laughed slightly at the silliness of a woman who ought to be too old for such romantic swooning.

Then she looked up at the ceiling, thinking about her young niece. Amelia was running away from something, or running to something. And she needed to figure out which it was.

Jeanne Marie was just glad that she was there to provide a resting place. And that she had a man of her own who could understand why.

* * *

Quinn had no intention of going by Jeanne Marie and Deke’s place later that evening. But he ran into Deke at the tractor supply in Vicker’s Corners before the baseball game and the man—typically short on words and long on hard work and honor—asked after Quinn’s mom. That brief exchange of pleasantries had somehow led to Deke casually tossing out an invitation to come by for supper.

“Havin’ a cookout,” Deke had said. “All the kids’re coming. And you know how Jeanne Marie always cooks more’n we need.”

Quinn had wondered then if it was possible that Deke didn’t know his wife’s new niece was there. And then he had wondered if it was possible that Jeanne’s new niece wasn’t there.

Which had led to him poking at that thought all through the ball game, same way a tongue poked at a sore tooth, even though it hurt.

He ought to have just asked Deke.

Instead, here he was at six o’clock in the evening, standing there staring at the front of Jeanne and Deke’s place.

He could smell grilling beef on the air and hear the high-pitched squeal of a baby laughing. Ordinarily, the smell of a steak getting seared really well would have been enough to get his boots moving. He didn’t even mind the babies or the kids much. He’d had plenty of practice with Jess’s batch, since she popped one out every couple of years.

His reluctance to join them now annoyed him. He’d had plenty of meals at the Jones’s place over the years. He’d been in school with the older ones and counted them as friends. He’d danced at Toby’s wedding. With Amelia. Right here, in fact, because Toby and Angie had been married out in back of the house.

Quinn hadn’t been back since.

Muttering an oath, he grabbed the short-haired wig, slammed the truck door and headed around the side of the house. He knew they’d all be out back again and he was right.

This time, though, instead of rows of chairs lined up like white soldiers across the green grass and a bunch of cloth-covered tables with pretty flowers sitting on top arranged around the space, there were a couple of picnic tables covered with plastic checked tablecloths, a bunch of lawn chairs and a game of croquet in the works.

He spotted Amelia immediately and even though he wanted to pretend he hadn’t been concerned about whether she had or had not sought haven with her aunt, the knot inside him eased.

She was off to one side of the grassy backyard where Toby’s three kids were playing croquet, and talking with Stacey, Jeanne’s and Deke’s second youngest. The two females were about the same age and the same height, but Stacey was as sunny and blonde as Amelia was moonlight and brunette.

Both women were engaged, too, he thought darkly, though only one of those engagements caused him any amount of pleasure. He was just a little surprised that Colton Foster, who was Stacey’s fiancé, hadn’t gotten her to the altar already. As he watched, Amelia leaned over and rubbed her nose against Piper’s, Stacey’s year-old daughter, who was propped on her mama’s hip.

He looked away and aimed toward Deke where he and Liam were manning the grill. “Smells good,” he greeted. “Would only smell better if that was Rocking-U beef.”

Liam snorted good-naturedly. Horseback Hollow was dotted with small cattle ranches and all of them were more supportive than competitive with each other. “You got yourself a new pet there? Looks like a rat.”

Quinn wished he’d have left the wig in the truck. He’d only thought as far as returning it to its owner so he wouldn’t have the reminder around. He hadn’t thought about the questions that doing so would invite. “It’s a wig. Thought maybe one of Toby’s kids might want to keep it around for Halloween or something.” The excuse was thin and he knew it. “My sister’s kids outgrew it, I guess,” he improvised and felt stupid even as he did. He’d never developed a taste for lying. Anyone who knew Jess’s brood would also know the five boys were hellions who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a wig.

Liam was eying him oddly, too. “Whatever, man.” He grabbed a beer from an ice-filled barrel and tossed it to him. “Crack that open and get started. Maybe it’ll soften you up before we get to dickering over that bull of yours I want to buy.”

Despite everything, Quinn smiled. He tossed the wig on one of the picnic benches nearby. “Rocky’s not for sale, my friend.”

“Even if I paid you twice what he’s worth?”

They’d had this debate many times. Quinn knew Liam wouldn’t overpay and Liam knew Quinn wasn’t selling, anyway. “That bull’s semen’s worth gold to me.”

“Oh.” The word was faint, brief and still filled with some shock.

The knots tightened inside him again and Quinn turned to see Amelia standing beside him.

Chapter Four

Her fragility struck Quinn all over again, like a fist in his gut.

The red dress that she was wearing was pretty enough, he guessed. But it was loose. And the straps over her shoulders couldn’t hide the way her collarbones were too prominent.

She looked like she needed to sit at a table and stuff herself for a month of Sundays.

As if she read his disapproving thoughts, her cheeks were nearly as red as the dress.

The day of Toby’s wedding, she’d worn a strapless ice-blue dress that ended just above her perfect knees, and a weird little puff of some feathery thing on her head. When they’d ended up sneaking off for a drive in his truck, he’d teased her about it. She’d promptly tugged it off, and plopped his cowboy hat on her head, where it had slipped down over her eyes, and said she was in the market for a new look, anyway.

His lips twisted, his eyes meeting hers. “You’re going to hear words like bull’s semen if you’re going to play around cowboys, princess.”

Stacey, standing beside Amelia, rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Quinn. Manners much?”

“It’s quite all right,” Amelia said quickly. She lifted her chin a little. “This is Texas, for goodness’ sake. Cattle ranch country. I certainly don’t imagine anyone stands around discussing tea and biscuits. Or, cookies, I guess you call them.”

He nearly choked. Because they’d laughed together about that, too. Only she’d been naked at the time, and throatily telling him that she’d bet he’d enjoy teatime perfectly well if she served it up for him after making love.

“Depends on whose cookies you’re talking about,” Deke said. “Jeanne Marie makes some oatmeal peanut-butter deals that are the talk of three counties.” His dry humor broke the faint tension. “Stacey girl, you wanna grab a tray for these steaks? They’re ’bout ready.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll take her,” Amelia offered quickly, reaching out her hands for Piper, and Stacey handed her over. She settled the wide-eyed toddler on her hip and tickled her cheek, making Piper squeal and wriggle. “Who is the prettiest baby girl here, hmm?”

For some reason, Quinn’s neck prickled.

He twisted the cap off his beer and focused on Liam. “Where’s your better half, anyway?” There was no sign of his friend’s red-haired fiancée.

“Julia’s meeting with one of the suppliers over at the Cantina. She’ll be here as soon as she finishes up.”

“Is the restaurant still going to open on schedule?” Amelia asked.

Liam nodded. “Two weeks from now, right on track.”

The Hollows Cantina was a big deal for their little town. It was owned and to be operated by Marcos Mendoza and his wife, Wendy Fortune Mendoza, who’d relocated all the way from Red Rock, a good four hundred Texas miles away. They’d hired Julia as an assistant manager and the establishment promised upscale dining that was intended to draw not only the locals from Horseback Hollow and nearby Vicker’s Corners, but as far away as Lubbock. Considering the Mendozas’ success with Red, a fancy Mexican food restaurant in Red Rock that was famous even beyond the state lines, Quinn figured they had a decent shot of success at it.

He was reserving judgment on whether that all would be a good thing for Horseback Hollow or not. He wasn’t vocally opposed to it like some folks, nor was he riding around on the bandwagon of supporters, though he was glad enough for Julia. She’d always been a hard worker and deserved her shot as much as anyone did.

He, personally, would probably still choose the Horseback Hollow Grill over the Cantina. Even on a good day, he wasn’t what he would call “upscale” material.

“My mother has the grand opening on her calendar,” Amelia said. “I know she’s looking forward to it. Not only is Uncle James going to be there, but Uncle John, as well. It should be quite a family reunion.”

Quinn stopped pretending an interest in his beer and looked at her. Ironically, the British Fortunes seemed too upscale for the Cantina. “And you? Is it on your calendar, too, princess? Maybe you’ll drag your fiancé along for the trip.”

Amelia’s chocolate-brown eyes went from her cousin’s face to Quinn’s and for the first time since he’d met her, they contained no emotion whatsoever. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing by the end of the month.” Her voice was smoothly pleasant and revealed as little as her eyes did.

Her “royal face,” he realized.

She’d talked about having one. Having had to develop as a little girl the ability to give nothing away by expression, deed or word.

He’d just never seen it in person before. And not directed at him.

Piper was wriggling on her hip and Amelia leaned over to set the little girl on her feet. She kept hold of Piper’s tiny hands as the girl made a beeline toddle for the wig sitting on the picnic bench next to them.

“Keekee,” she chortled, and reached for the wig.

Amelia laughed lightly and scooped up the wig before Piper could reach it and brushed the short thick strands against the baby’s face. “That’s not a kitty, darling. It’s a wig.”

She’d crouched next to Piper and while the child chortled over the hairy thing, she glanced up at Quinn. “There was no need to return the wig to me, Quinn,” she told him. “You could have tossed it in the trash bin.”

He really wished he would have.

Liam tilted his beer to his lips but not quickly enough to hide his faint grin. “Thought the rat belonged to your sis’s kids.”

“Here’s the tray,” Stacey announced, striding up with a metal cookie sheet in her hand that she set on the side of the grill.

She was also carrying a big bowl of coleslaw under her other arm, and, glad of an escape route, Quinn slid his hand beneath it. “I’ll put it on the table before you drop it.” He turned away from the lot of them and carried it over to a folding table that had obviously been set out to hold the food.

* * *

Trying not to watch Quinn too openly, Amelia continued entertaining the sweet baby with the wig while everyone else seemed to suddenly spring into action organizing the food onto plates and the people onto picnic benches.

Though she tried to avoid it, she somehow found herself sitting directly across from Quinn. He was hemmed in on one side by Delaney, Jeanne Marie and Deke’s youngest daughter, and Liam on the other. Amelia was caught between Jeanne Marie and Deke.

If she didn’t know better, she almost would have suspected her aunt and uncle of planning it.

Judging by the way Quinn noticeably ignored her, he was no more comfortable with the seating plan than she was. Fortunately, his friendship with Liam was evident as the two men dickered over the issue of Rocky’s studding abilities and whether or not the summer season would be wetter or drier than usual.

“Have some more corn bread,” Jeanne Marie said, nudging a basket of the fragrant squares into her hands.

Amelia obediently put another piece on her plate, and managed a light laugh when Deke tried to talk her into another steak, though she’d only eaten a fraction of the one on her plate. “If I ate all this, I’d pop,” she protested.

“So, Amelia,” Delaney drew her attention. “What are you doing in Horseback Hollow, anyway?” Her eyes were bright with curiosity as she grinned. “Are you planning some secret meeting with your wedding gown designer? Texas has our very own Charlene Dalton. She’s based in Red Rock and I hear she did Emily Fortune’s gown.”

“Delaney,” Jeanne Marie tsked, handing the corn bread across to her daughter. “You’re sounding like one of those nosy reporters.”

Delaney made a protesting sound. “That’s not fair. None of us expected to find ourselves family with The Fortunes. If you can’t share some secrets among your own family, who can you share ’em with? It’s not like I’ll go tattling to the newspapers. And besides. I didn’t get to see Emily’s gown outside of pictures, ’cause she got married before we even knew we all were cousins!”

“It’s all right,” Amelia said quickly. Not only could she sense her aunt’s sudden discomfort, but she was painfully aware of Quinn across from her. “I’m not...not planning any designer sessions.” She was loath to discuss her personal business in front of everyone, even if they were family. That just wasn’t the way she’d been raised. Even among her four brothers and sister, she didn’t get into whys and wherefores and the most personal of emotions. She hadn’t even divulged all the facts to her own mother about her “engagement,” though she knew Josephine had her suspicions.

She tried not looking at Quinn, but couldn’t help herself. “I’m not planning anything.” It wasn’t exactly a public admission, but since she’d discovered she was pregnant with his child, it was entirely truthful.

“’Scuse me.” He suddenly rose and extricated himself from the picnic bench and the human bookends holding him there.

Amelia’s fingernails dug into her palms as she watched him carry his plate over to the table of food and make a point of studying the display.

“Getting a microphone stuck in your face or a camera flash blinding you every time you go out in public would be a pain in the butt,” Deke said, as if nothing had happened. Then he looked around at the silence his unexpected input drew. His eyebrows rose. “Well. Would be,” he drawled in conclusion.

And that seemed to be that.

Nobody else broached the subject about Amelia’s unplanned appearance. Nor did the topic of the wedding come up again.

And Quinn never returned to their picnic table.

He stuck around long enough to have a piece of the three-layer chocolate cake when Jeanne Marie presented it, along with a peach pie that was so picturesque it might have come out of the kitchens at the Chesterfield estate. But whenever Amelia entered his vicinity, he exited hers.

It was so plainly obvious that he was avoiding her that she felt herself receiving looks of sympathy from Stacey, Delaney and Liam’s fiancée, Julia, who’d arrived in time for dessert.

She didn’t want sympathy.

She wanted Quinn’s love.

In the absence of that, at least his understanding.

But clearly he wasn’t going to offer that, either.

She saw him shake Deke’s hand, drop a kiss on her aunt’s cheek and exchange easily a half-dozen goodbyes with some of the others, without a single glance her way. And then he was walking away, heading out of sight around the corner of her aunt’s house.

She swallowed and sucked all of her feelings inward until she felt reasonably confident that her expression was calm. She listened in on Toby and Angie’s conversation as they talked about the difficulties they kept encountering trying to adopt the three Hemings children Toby had been fostering ever since she’d first met him, and knew she made the appropriate nods and sounds when she should have. But a portion of her mind was wondering if she could get back home again without drawing undue media attention.

Which was rather laughable to worry about now.

The attention she’d draw once word of her pregnancy got out would thoroughly eclipse what she’d already garnered.

And poor James. Instead of dealing with the embarrassment of a broken engagement, he would have to endure speculation over being the baby’s father. It wouldn’t matter that he wasn’t. It wouldn’t matter what statements were issued or what proof was given.

Forever on, people would whisper. Every time either one of them did something to draw the attention of the media, the scandal would be dug up all over again, regurgitated on the internet or on gossip networks.

They’d all pay the price and none more dearly than her and Quinn’s innocent baby.

Her head swam dizzily and she excused herself, walking blindly. She instinctively followed the path that Quinn had taken, heading around the side of the house and away from all of the noisy gaiety.

Going home was as impossible as staying in Horseback Hollow would be.

The thought came over her in a wave and her knees went weak. She stopped, bracing herself with one hand against the side of the house.

“Are you going to pass out again?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Quinn’s voice. He was standing a few feet away, his hazel eyes alert, as though he was ready to leap forward if he had to.

At least he didn’t hate her badly enough to allow her to collapse flat on her face.

She let out a choking laugh at the thought, which only had him closing the distance between them, his expression even warier as he clasped her bare arms.

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