A Chance To Prove Himself

Learning that she was adopted is the biggest shock of magazine writer Sarah Tigarden’s life. Falling in love with champion bull rider Clay Hollyer is a close second. Years ago, she shared a sizzling kiss with the handsome rodeo star, only to hear that he was a player who enjoyed toying with women. After her profile of Clay called him on his caddish behavior, she never wanted to see him again.

But as Sarah searches for her birth mother, Clay is unexpectedly by her side. Can this really be the same guy she condemned as a womanizer? As she gets closer to learning the stunning truth about her biological mom, Sarah also finds herself getting closer to Clay. Her head tells her it’s a mistake…but her heart isn’t so sure.

“That kiss meant something.”

His eyelids dropped a fraction over his very warm gaze, seductive and intent. Making her feel restless and needy. She half wished he’d kiss her again.

She posed the question that had plagued her ever since. “Why did you kiss me back then, Clay?”

“Because that mouth… I thought… We both—” He broke off and blew out a loud breath. “To hell with the past, Sarah.”

With a dangerous glint in his eyes, he started toward her. Unable to move, she swallowed. “What are you doing?”

“What I’ve wanted to do since you knocked on my door this morning.” He cupped her face between his big rough hands and brushed her bangs back with his fingers.

“Please, Clay,” she whispered, not sure whether she wanted him to let go of her or step closer.

The corner of his mouth rose. Angling his head, he leaned toward her....

Dear Reader,

This is the fourth book of my miniseries set in Saddlers Prairie, a fictitious ranching town in Montana prairie country.

Have you ever wondered what happens to a rodeo star when his career ends? I have, and I decided to explore the issue. Clay Hollyer is a former bull-riding champion whose career ended after a nasty run-in with a bull. He now has a new life in Saddlers Prairie.

Sarah Tigarden is searching for her biological mother, who once lived in Saddlers Prairie. She and Clay met three years ago, when she interviewed him for a magazine article.

I don’t want to spoil the story, so I’ll just say that they didn’t exactly part on good terms. Not an auspicious beginning for the hero and heroine of a romance novel, you may be thinking.

Which makes this story all the more interesting.

Happy reading!

Ann

P.S. I always appreciate hearing from readers. Email me at ann@annroth.net, or write me c/o P.O. Box 25003, Seattle, WA 98165-1903, or visit my Facebook page. And please visit my website at www.annroth.net, where you can enter the monthly drawing to win a free book! You’ll also find my latest writing news, tips for aspiring writers and a delicious new recipe every month.

The Rancher She Loved

Ann Roth

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ann Roth lives in the greater Seattle area with her husband. After earning an MBA she worked as a banker and corporate trainer. She gave up the corporate life to write, and if they awarded PhDs in writing happily-ever-after stories, she’d surely have one.

Ann loves to hear from readers. You can write her at P.O. Box 25003, Seattle, WA 98165-1903 or email her at ann@annroth.net.

MRS. YANCY’S

DOUBLE CHOCOLATE DROP COOKIES

(with special thanks to Country Fair Cookbook)

Makes 2 to 4 dozen, depending on cookie size

6 oz (approximately 1 cup) semisweet chocolate pieces

½ cup softened butter

½ cup sugar

1 egg

1 cup flour

½ tsp baking soda

½ tsp salt

½ cup walnuts or pecans, chopped (optional)

6 oz (approximately 1 cup) semisweet chocolate pieces

Preheat oven to 350ºF. Microwave 6 ounces of semisweet chocolate chips until melted; set aside to cool.

Cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg; beat well. Gradually add melted chocolate, beating well.

Mix together flour, baking soda and salt. Gradually add to creamed mixture and mix well. Stir in nuts and remaining chocolate chips. Drop by teaspoonfuls on greased baking sheets about 2 inches apart. (Mrs. Yancy prefers to use Silpat or parchment paper instead of greasing the cookie sheets.)

Bake 12 to 15 minutes or until done. Remove from baking sheets and cool on racks.

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Excerpt

Chapter One

Sarah Tigarden drove down the deserted highway in the small ranching town of Saddlers Prairie, Montana, asking herself the question that would remain forever unanswered. Why hadn’t her parents told her she was adopted?

Anger that had been with her since she’d discovered the truth welled, and the sunlit prairies on either side of the road seemed to dim.

Sarah didn’t fault her father, who’d died when she was ten. But her mother, whom she now referred to as Ellen, could and should have told her. Now that she was gone, buried six months ago, it was too late.

They’d been close, growing closer still during the year before Ellen had succumbed to the ovarian cancer that ravaged her. Sarah had put her own life on hold, giving up her apartment and moving back home to care for Ellen. They’d talked about Sarah’s recent breakup, finances, Ellen’s burial—everything except the fact that Sarah was adopted.

She was still reeling from the shock that had awaited her when she’d emptied her mother’s safe-deposit box. Surely Ellen had realized Sarah would find the birth certificate. She had to know how upset, how hurt Sarah would be. Not because of the adoption—because of the lies.

Why hadn’t Ellen told the truth?

Sick of asking herself the question she might never find the answer to, Sarah cranked up the music and sang along with Adele. The words drowned out other thoughts, just as she wanted.

A sudden gust of wind sent dirt and debris flying, as if Mother Nature were upset on Sarah’s behalf. Wind that pushed the car across the centerline. Gripping the wheel, Sarah steered her car to the right side of the road and fought to hold it there.

Ominous clouds suddenly obliterated the flawless blue sky that had been with her since she’d left Boise a day and a half earlier. Sarah tossed her sunglasses onto the passenger seat. Without the warmth of the mid-May sun, the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and she closed the sunroof and turned on the heat.

Maybe she should check in to her room first and change into warmer clothes. The widow who owned the house where she’d rented a room for the next two weeks was expecting her about now.

But that would involve a U-turn and a five-mile drive in the opposite direction, and Sarah was too anxious for answers. She wanted to know why Tammy Becker, her biological mother, had given her up, and where she was now. The private investigator Sarah had hired had tracked her mother to a house in Saddlers Prairie, where the Becker family had lived some twenty-nine years ago. It was there that the trail had abruptly ended—right around the time of Sarah’s birth.

According to the P.I., a Mr. Tyler Phillips had bought the house from the Beckers all those years ago and still owned it. Unfortunately, his phone number was unlisted, and he hadn’t answered either of the two letters Sarah had sent. If she showed up at his door, he’d be forced to at least talk to her. Maybe he’d share some valuable insights about Tammy Becker and her parents and provide information on where Tammy lived now. He might even let Sarah into the house. She wanted to walk through it, see Tammy’s bedroom and gaze out the same windows her biological mother had once looked through.

She was curious. What kind of person was Tammy Becker, and had she ever thought about the daughter she’d given up? Sarah hoped to one day meet the woman and maybe even develop a relationship.

Even if Mr. Phillips refused to talk to her, she was determined to get some answers while she was in town. Following the directions on her iPhone GPS, she turned her travel-weary sedan onto a small paved street aptly named Dusty Horse Road.

Wouldn’t you know, rain began to pummel the car and the dirt-packed ground, sending splashes of wet dust flying.

Great, just great.

The last time Sarah had visited Montana, to research an article on fly-fishing during a hot week in July a few years ago, she’d heard about the fickle spring climate. Now she was experiencing the abrupt shifts firsthand.

Her windshield wipers fought to keep pace with the downpour. Sarah slowed to a crawl, squinting through the weather at the numbers on the mailboxes.

They were few and far between, sentries at the feet of the driveways of modest homes. After a few minutes, the rain eased to a lighter, slower rhythm. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever find the address she was looking for, when the GPS indicated the house she wanted was a few hundred feet away.

There it was—a bungalow situated back from the road, its pale green siding in need of fresh paint. Scraggly weeds filled the garden bed under the front window, but the large front and side yards were mowed, and buds filled the overgrown bushes along one side.

A black pickup was parked under a tall cottonwood at the edge of the gravel driveway. Someone was home—with any luck, Mr. Phillips himself.

This was it, the chance she’d hoped for. Slightly breathless, she pulled into the driveway and braked to a stop near the truck.

Shielding her hair with her shoulder bag, she dashed onto the porch, which was nothing but a concrete slab. Thanks to the overhang above the door, she was sheltered from the rain. Before ringing the doorbell, she smoothed her cap-sleeve blouse over her jeans and fluffed her hair, which had gotten wet despite the purse. Then she pressed the bell with a hand that trembled, thanks to a combination of nerves and a little fear. Though she couldn’t have said what scared her.

Through the door she heard the faint, chiming ding-dong. Above her, clouds raced by, and another gust of wind whipped wet strands of hair across her face. So much for trying to look decent.

Sarah dug into her purse and quickly found her comb, but she needn’t have hurried—Mr. Phillips, or whoever was inside, did not answer the door.

Maybe he needed extra time to reach it—the P.I. said he was in his mid-sixties—or maybe he hadn’t heard the bell.

Determined, she rang again, letting her finger linger on the buzzer. After a short wait, she knocked. Nothing.

Frustrated and disappointed, but too curious to leave without at least sneaking a peek inside, she left the porch. Keeping under the shelter of the eaves, she stepped into the neglected garden along the front of the house.

Knee-high weeds raked the calves of her jeans, and mud sucked at her expensive leather slip-ons. Wishing she’d worn sneakers, she leaned forward and peered through the large front window into what appeared to be the living room. A sofa backed up against the window, and two armchairs and a coffee table faced an old TV. The off-white walls were completely bare. Mr. Phillips wasn’t much for decorating.

Suddenly the deadbolt clicked. Sarah froze, but not for long. She turned and made a mad dash for the porch, stumbling over a dip in the ground in her haste. She’d barely regained her balance before the door swung open.

Caught in the garden like a thief. Great way to make a first impression, Sarah.

Her face burned, and she knew she was beet-red. With all the grace she could muster, she brushed off her hands and moved causally toward the door.

It wasn’t until she planted her feet on the concrete slab that she mustered the courage to actually look at the large male standing in the doorway.

When she saw who it was, she almost stumbled again from the sheer shock. What was Clay Hollyer doing here?

The corner of his sexy mouth lifted in the devastating quirk women everywhere swooned over. Not Sarah—not anymore. She’d never thought she’d see him again and hadn’t ever wanted to.

Yet there he was, as imposing and magnetic as ever.

He pushed his longish brown hair off his forehead, momentarily exposing the faint scar along his right temple, the result of an angry bull’s attempt to rid himself of his tenacious rider sometime during Clay’s brilliant career as America’s champion bull rider.

As talented and good-looking as he was, Clay Hollyer was also cocky and full of himself. He was one of the biggest players Sarah had ever met, let alone profiled for a magazine article. The buckle bunnies who buzzed around him, vying for his attention like bees around a honeycomb, only increased his inflated opinion of himself.

That Sarah had been one of them—not a buckle bunny, but just as smitten—made seeing him now all the worse.

It had been nearly three years. Plenty had happened since then, and she doubted he even remembered her. Hoped and prayed he didn’t. But the striking jade eyes known to every rodeo fan in the world narrowed, and his lips compressed into a thin, flat line, and she knew that he did.

She wanted to sink into the ground. Or better yet, make a beeline for the car. But she was no coward. She forced a smile. “Hello, Clay. You probably don’t remember me. I’m Sa—”

“Sarah Tigarden. How could I ever forget you?” His expression hardened, belying his light tone. “What the hell are you doing here?”

* * *

OF ALL THE women Clay had known, one of his least favorite was standing on his doorstep. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d trampled through the dead flower bed to snoop through the window.

He was so not amused.

Despite his nasty-ass scowl, she barely flinched. She lost the phony smile though, and clutched the strap of her purse in a stranglehold. “I’m looking for Mr. Tyler Phillips.”

“You want to talk my landlord.” Clay snorted. “He doesn’t live here, and FYI, he doesn’t know anything about me.”

“But this is his house.”

“And he rented it to me. I don’t do interviews anymore.”

Even if he did, he wouldn’t talk to her. A few years back, her big oh-so-guileless blue eyes and great legs had all but reeled him in. That and the habit she had of pushing her then long black hair behind her ears and catching her provocative lower lip between her teeth.

He’d soaked up her interest in him, had liked her enough that he’d even considered dating her. She didn’t have the voluptuous curves he preferred, but those legs and her sweet little behind compensated for the small breasts.

Early one memorable morning, after ten days of letting her shadow him and answering her endless questions, he’d kissed her, in the stable with the horses, leaning against a clover-scented bale of hay. A sizzling kiss he’d thought about for months—and sometimes still did.

At the time, she’d seemed just as awed by the wallop that kiss had packed. Yet for some reason she’d cooled off, fast.

For the rest of the day and the night, she’d avoided being alone with him. The following morning, a full day before she was supposed to leave, she’d taken off without even thanking him for his time. She’d ignored his calls, emails and texts. Then she’d slammed him in print, calling him shallow, a player with a big ego that needed constant feeding. As if he were responsible for the women who threw themselves at him.

His buddies had laughed and said they wouldn’t mind a similar article written about them, but that article had caused him no small amount of pain and trouble.

“I’m not here to do an interview, Clay.”

Yeah, right. She was probably here to write a scathing piece about the life of a has-been. No, thanks.

Those big eyes widened, once more tempting him to fall under her spell and stay awhile. Not about to get suckered in again, he tore his gaze away. “How’d you find me?”

Not that his living here was a secret. He’d put out the press release himself, mostly to announce his new business venture. Since the accident and his forced retirement, interest from reporters had been all but nonexistent. Which suited him fine.

“Believe me, you’re the last person I expected to run into,” Sarah said. “I have no interest in you at all. None.”

Why that bothered him was anyone’s guess. She wasn’t the first to feel that way. The angry bull that had crushed his knee had ruined more than his career. The buckle bunnies he’d once taken for granted had quickly turned their attention to other bull riders. Never mind that he’d driven them away. He didn’t need their pity.

“Then why are you here?” he asked, not hiding his displeasure.

“I was hoping I could see the house.”

Right, and he was a ballet dancer. “You’re telling me Phillips wants to sell this place? Too bad—a couple of months ago, I signed a nine-month lease. I’m not leaving until the contractor finishes my house, and he just broke ground.”

His bad leg was beginning to ache. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms.

“You’re building a place in Saddlers Prairie.” She frowned. “I thought you lived in Billings.”

“I relocated.”

“You’re not riding anymore?”

She hadn’t followed the stories, then. Just went to show how far he’d slipped from the radar. “Nope,” he said. “I retired a year and a half ago.”

The ache in his leg advanced to low-level pain, a sure sign that hell was on its way. He shouldn’t have pushed himself so hard this morning.

“Thanks for stopping by.” He backed inside and started to close the door.

“Wait—please!”

Her voice had a desperate ring to it he couldn’t ignore. He hesitated.

“If I could just peek at the house,” she said. “I won’t stay long, I promise.”

Vulnerability he hadn’t noticed the last time they’d met made her look softer and even more attractive. Leaning heavily against the jamb, he eyed her. “Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”

“How about the truth? I’m researching my family roots, and I found out that my mother and her parents once lived in this house.”

He barely hid his surprise. “Can’t you just ask them what you want to know?”

“I would, but both my parents are gone now—my adoptive parents, that is—and there are no other relatives to ask. This was my biological mother’s house.” Shadows filled her eyes. “Until recently, I didn’t even know about her.”

Interesting. “Closed adoption, huh?” he guessed.

“Something like that.” She ducked her head, as if wanting to hide from him.

Curious, he cautiously flexed his bad leg. “When did she live here?”

“Twenty-nine years ago—when she was pregnant with me.”

“And you’re looking to learn something about her in this house, after all that time.” Clay didn’t buy it.

“I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all I have. Tyler Phillips bought this place from Bob and Judy Becker—my biological grandparents. The private investigator I hired said that Mr. Phillips still lived here. His phone number is unlisted, so I wrote to him for information, but he never replied. I thought that if I came in person, if he talked to me and showed me around, I might...never mind. Thanks for your time.”

She turned away, but not before Clay saw her crestfallen expression.

Hell. He wasn’t doing anything right now, anyway, so what could it hurt to let her in? “I’ll give you ten minutes. Then you have to leave.”

She brightened right up. “Thank you.”

Chapter Two

Not knowing what to expect, Sarah followed Clay through the door. She couldn’t help admiring his broad, straight back and wide shoulders, the way his jeans hung lovingly on his narrow hips and the powerful legs that were slightly bowed. Once, just once, she’d run her palms up his back and over his shoulders, while enjoying the kiss of her life. A huge mistake, she’d quickly learned.

He walked with a slight limp she didn’t remember, probably from a bull-riding injury. She had no idea when that had happened, hadn’t even realized he’d retired. But then, over the past year she’d barely had time to eat and write the articles that paid the bills, let alone keep up with what was new on the rodeo circuit. “You’ve seen the living room,” he said, his deadpan face more expressive than any dirty look. “Kitchen’s this way.”

With its worn yellow linoleum and blue-and-white tiled counters, the small kitchen looked original. Sarah’s excitement mounted. A built-in table and two benches filled a windowed nook that faced the big backyard.

She tried to picture Tammy and her parents eating there. Having no idea what they looked like made imagining them difficult.

“You’re staring at the table like you expect it to talk,” Clay said.

“It looks like it’s been there a long time, and I was thinking about Tammy—my biological mother—sitting there.”

His hands on the counter behind him, Clay regarded her solemnly. “What do you know about the Becker family?”

“Not much, except that at some point after Tammy got pregnant, her parents sold the house to Mr. Phillips. She was sixteen.”

“My mom was eighteen when she got pregnant with me.”

Sarah nodded. “Your parents got married the day after they graduated from high school, about five months before you were born. And they’re still married.”

“You remember that, huh?”

The corner of his mouth lifted, making him oh, so appealing, and she had to glance away. “You’re lucky they didn’t give you up, and that they didn’t hide their past from you. I only learned the truth six months ago.”

She wasn’t sure why she told him. Probably because despite his initial hostility, he listened as if what she said mattered. It was one of the qualities that had first attracted her to him. He’d no doubt discovered that women were drawn to a man who paid attention.

“I guess I was lucky,” he said. “If my folks had given me up and separated, I wouldn’t have a sister and brother-in-law or two nieces.”

“You have a second niece now?”

“Fiona. She’s almost two, and a real pistol. And my parents did hide the truth from me. They never told me squat about their shotgun wedding. My aunt is the one who spilled the beans, to get back at my mom for something or other. After that, they didn’t speak for years.”

She hadn’t known that. Clay rubbed his leg above the knee and winced.

“Your leg hurts,” she observed.

“It’s fine.” He straightened and gingerly flexed his knee. “You don’t know where the Beckers went?”

He seemed genuinely interested, and Sarah wanted to talk about it. She’d told her friends back home everything she knew, mulling over what-ifs and possibilities ad nauseum, and they’d quickly grown tired of the subject. They didn’t even think she should be here, thought she should forget all about Tammy Becker and get on with her life.

Sarah agreed, and once she learned the answers to her questions, she intended to do just that. She shook her head. “They seem to have vanished.”

“I hope you find them.”

“You and me both.”

His eyes beamed warmth and sympathy, making him all but irresistible. Her stomach flip-flopped just as it had the day she’d first met him in person and seen how his high-wattage grin caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle.

All right, she was attracted to him, had fallen a little in love with him three years ago. At the time, she’d stupidly thought he felt something, too. Ha. She’d quickly realized that any interest Clay had shown her was short-lived. He didn’t really want to get to know her for who she was—or any other woman, for that matter.

It hadn’t taken long for her to discover that, aside from bull riding, Clay Hollyer specialized in playing the field. No doubt, he probably still did.

Which was why she wasn’t going to pay any attention to the feelings flirting with her insides. She was only drawn to Clay because, for one thing, he was gorgeous, and for another, she hadn’t been with a man since she and Matthew had broken up over a year ago. Between caring for her mother and her freelance magazine work, Sarah simply hadn’t had time for a boyfriend and had ended the relationship.

She wasn’t about to let Clay’s charm and good looks affect her pulse rate—even if she did dream about him from time to time. Steamy dreams that led to restless nights.

The past few months, she’d all but banished him from her thoughts. And now here she was, standing in his house, fighting those same feelings. “Shall we continue with the tour?” she asked in a far cooler tone.

In a blink, the warmth disappeared from his eyes and his expression blanked. He nodded toward the hallway beyond the kitchen. “Head back down the hall.”

As she turned and exited the room, she swore she felt his gaze on her rear end. Resisting the urge to tug her blouse over her hips, she gestured for him to lead the way. Instead, he fell into step beside her. The hallway was barely wide enough to accommodate them both.

Familiar smells she thought she’d forgotten teased her senses—the clean soap Clay used, and underneath, his masculine scent. Edging closer to the wall, she trained her gaze on the worn carpet.

“There isn’t much to this house—just the kitchen, living room, bathroom and two bedrooms,” he said.

Struggling with herself to pay attention to the house instead of the man beside her, she managed an interested nod.

What was the matter with her? She’d come here to find out what she could about Tammy Becker and her parents, not dredge up the one-sided emotions she’d once felt for Clay Hollyer.

“This is where I sleep,” he said, pointing to a bedroom. The bed was unmade, the covers thrown back. “The house came furnished, but I brought my own king-size bed. I like to stretch out and get comfy.”

Sarah just bet he did. Images of wild sex all over that bed filled her head. She glanced around the room without really taking in the furnishings. “May I see the other bedroom?”

“Sure. It’s right across the hall.” He opened the closed door of the second bedroom and stood back for her to pass.

This room was smaller, and the air smelled stale. A twin bed stood against the wall, much like the one still in Sarah’s bedroom at Ellen’s house. Judging by the yellowing striped wallpaper that curled along the seams, the flowery bedspread and lacy pillows that looked as outdated as the faded pink curtains, the decor hadn’t been changed in ages. No wonder Clay kept the door closed.

Obviously, this had been a girl’s bedroom. A white desk and wicker chair, the kind a teen might use to do homework, faced a window that overlooked the backyard.

Sarah sucked in a breath. “Do you think this room is the same as it was when Tammy lived here?”

“I wouldn’t know, but why would the family leave the furniture behind when they moved?”

Sarah had no idea. “It’s awfully girlie and really dated. I wonder why Mr. Phillips never stripped the wallpaper, or at least replaced the bedding and curtains.”

“Maybe he likes pink. Tour’s over.”

Sarah wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but she hadn’t anticipated even more unanswerable questions. She let out a disappointed sigh. “Thanks for letting me come in.”

In the hallway, something made her glance up. A short pull rope hung from a door in the ceiling. “Is that an attic?”

“Probably.”

“You haven’t been up there?” When Clay shook his head, she said, “Could I take a peek?”

“Some other time.” His mouth settled into a grim line.

He wanted her gone. Sarah understood—she was uncomfortable around him, too. Yet some sixth sense told her that she might find something important in the attic. If only she could talk with Mr. Phillips...

“I’d like to ask Mr. Phillips about the Beckers,” she said. “Would you mind giving me his number?”

Clay shrugged one shoulder and supplied it as she input the information into her phone. “You won’t be able to reach him, though,” he said. “He doesn’t own a cell, and right now he and his wife are someplace in Europe.”

That explained why he hadn’t answered her letters. “Does he have an email address?”

“Nope.”

“When will he be back?”

“In the fall.”

Her hopes plummeted. “If he contacts you, will you let him know I’d like to talk? Here’s my contact information.” She handed Clay her card.

Without a glance, he slid it into his hip pocket. “How long are you in town?”

“Two weeks.”

“That’s a long time to search for your biological mom who probably lives someplace else. Besides ranching, there isn’t much to do around here. If I were you, I’d leave a lot sooner.”

He really wanted her gone.

Not about to let him intimidate her, she pulled herself up tall. “Actually, I’m also here to research and write an article on ranching life in Montana. I only hope two weeks is enough.”

Clay’s face was unreadable. “Interviewing anyone in particular? I’ll warn them to watch out for you.”

“What does that mean?” Sarah asked, though she knew.

“It means that you act all sweet and caring about a guy and then you trash him in a magazine story.”

She had cared, and thought he cared, too. Especially when, a few days before she was leaving, he’d kissed her. Not just a little peck, but a long, heady kiss filled with feeling and promise. Even now she remembered the hot flare of desire inside her, and the certainty that standing in the warmth of his arms was exactly where she belonged.

Some scant hours later, while sitting in the bleachers, watching a crew set up for an upcoming rodeo, she’d overheard two buckle bunnies nearby.

“I had sex with Clay last night,” said the one with the fake red hair and size double-D breasts.

“Way to go.” Her friend had high-fived her. “Is he as good as they say?”

“The best I’ve ever had. But don’t trust me, knock on his door tonight and find out for yourself.”

Sarah raised her chin. “Everything in that article was true.”

Clay’s expression darkened, and he swore. “I’m not shallow and my ego isn’t that big. You spent ten whole days with me, Sarah. You know that.”

He was and it was, but she wasn’t going to stand there and argue. She wanted to get far, far away from Clay, and forget all about him. If he would just let her look around the attic...

She glanced up. “Let me see what’s up there, and then I promise I’ll go.”

Clay checked his watch. “We agreed that you’d leave after ten minutes, yet you’ve been here for over thirty.”

That long? “I can’t shake the feeling that there might be something up there of Tammy’s,” she said. “Please.”

Clay blew out an exasperated breath. “Don’t tell me you’re going to pull that again.”

Having no idea what he meant, she frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Making your eyes extra big and biting your bottom lip.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. One look around the attic is all I ask. Then I’ll go, and you’ll never see me again.”

“Is that a promise?”

Sarah bit back a retort, which wouldn’t help. “You won’t have to do a thing. Just point me to a stepladder and I’ll take care of the rest.”

He muttered something about her stubbornness.

“You’re right,” she said. “When I want something, I am stubborn.”

“Will you quit doing that?”

She was biting her bottom lip again, she realized. She rolled her eyes and forced a smile. “Is this better?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

He advanced toward her with an intent expression she felt clear to her toes.

Swallowing, she stepped back. “The stepladder?”

“I think there’s one in the utility room,” Clay said, moving closer still.

Her heart pounding, Sarah retreated another step, but the wall stopped her. “I-is it off the kitchen?”

“You’re driving me crazy,” he said in a low voice, and leaned in even closer.

“Clay, I don’t—”

He silenced her with a kiss.

* * *

CLAY DIDN’T TRUST Sarah, didn’t want her there and sure as hell shouldn’t go near her. But there was something about her he couldn’t resist.

Her eyes were huge and a little scared, but as soon as he brushed his mouth over hers, the look in them softened and her eyelids drifted closed.

Clay also closed his eyes. Her perfume, flowery and as fresh as a spring day, was different from before, but every bit as seductive. She’d cut her hair short, but it felt just as silky as when it had reached her shoulders.

If there were other differences, he didn’t sense them. She felt good in his arms, tasted sweet.

Just as he remembered.

With the little sigh he’d been waiting for without realizing it, she gave in and kissed him back. Her hands slid up his arms and wrapped around his neck, bringing her soft breasts tight against his chest.

Wanting to get closer, he shifted his weight. Wrong move. His leg screamed, snapping him out of his haze of desire.

What was he doing? Was he nuts? He dropped his hands and stepped back.

Looking slightly unfocused, Sarah tugged at her blouse. “Why did you do that?”

Because he hadn’t been able to stop himself. “I wanted to find out if you tasted as good as I remember,” he drawled. “And you do.”

Good enough that for a brief time he’d forgotten the searing pain in his knee. He needed to pop four extra-strength aspirin now, and then prop up his leg.

Not in front of Sarah. It was only out of sheer willpower that he managed to stay on his feet.

She as good as ran for the door.

Gritting his teeth, he strode after her and banged it open in time to let her out. “Goodbye, Sarah Tigarden.”

She left without a backward glance.

* * *

MRS. YANCY, THE sixty-something grandmotherly widow Sarah had rented a room from, seemed glad for the company. When Sarah returned from putting her things in the bedroom up a narrow set of stairs, her temporary landlady showed her around her colorful house, pointing out treasures she’d collected. She liked primary colors and flowers, and the fabrics of the drapes and furniture were filled with both. An eclectic selection of pictures and wall hangings decorated most of the wall space, and knickknacks crowded every available table and windowsill.

The woman herself was just as bright and energetic, and a whole lot friendlier than Clay.

But Sarah wasn’t going to think about him—even if she was still reeling from that kiss. A kiss every bit as potent as the ones she remembered.

What really rattled her, though, was that she’d enjoyed every moment of it so much. The hard strength of his arms, the delicious press of his mouth...

“The washer and dryer are behind those corded doors,” Mrs. Yancy said just before they entered a modest but homey kitchen. “You’re on your own for lunch and dinner, and if you want to cook your own meals, feel free to use the kitchen. You will get breakfast every morning. I hope you like eggs and biscuits. I didn’t know if you drank coffee or tea, so I stocked up on both.”

She clasped her hands at her ample waist, as if anxious for Sarah’s approval.

No one had cooked for Sarah in ages, and she relished the thought. “Eggs and biscuits sound delicious, and I’m a coffee drinker.”

“So am I, but if you decide you want tea, there’s a sampler box in the cabinet above the stove. Which reminds me—for groceries, head to Spenser’s General Store, about seven miles up the highway. You’ll find just about anything you might want there, including prepared food. If you’d rather eat out, Barb’s Café is right next door to Spenser’s. It’s our only real restaurant, and the food is excellent. We also have pizza and fast-food places.”

Sarah mentally stored away the information.

“If you have questions about anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask,” Mrs. Yancy continued.

Maybe the woman had known the Beckers. “Have you lived in Saddlers Prairie long?” Sarah asked.

“Almost twenty-five years. After John and I married, I moved here from Ely, Nevada. He was my second husband. The first one didn’t work out.” Briefly, her smile dimmed. “I’ll bet you’ve never heard of Ely.”

The woman jumped subjects like a leaping frog. “No, I haven’t,” Sarah said.

“It’s on the east side of the state. I met John when he came through town, offering insurance policies to ranchers. His home was Saddlers Prairie, so this is where we settled.

“At first, it seemed awfully small—even smaller than Ely. I didn’t know a soul besides my husband, and with him out and about, selling insurance to ranchers all over the West, I was afraid I’d get homesick. But the folks around here reached out to me, and in no time, I felt as if I’d lived here all my life. John’s been gone eight years now, and my friends here treat me like family. I’ve never spent a birthday or holiday alone.”

Now that Ellen was gone, Sarah wondered how she’d spend the holidays. Not that she didn’t have friends, but they had their own families.

“This sounds like a very special place,” she said. Even though Mrs. Yancy had arrived in Saddlers Prairie after the Beckers had sold their home, you never knew. “Did you by chance ever meet a family named Becker?”

The widow glanced at the ceiling, thinking, and then shook her head. “Not that I recall. But why don’t you join me over coffee and the oatmeal cookies I baked this morning, and I’ll think on it some more.”

At the mention of food, Sarah salivated. In the anxiety and excitement over seeing the house where the Beckers had once lived, her appetite had all but vanished, and she hadn’t eaten much breakfast or lunch. “That sounds wonderful,” she said.

Minutes later, she was sharing the kitchen table with her talkative landlady, two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of chewy cookies.

“You never said why you’ve come to Saddlers Prairie,” Mrs. Yancy said.

“One reason is to do research for an article on ranching in eastern Montana.”

“I had no idea you were a writer.” She looked impressed. “It’s about time somebody sang the praises of Saddlers Prairie. I enjoy reading magazines. Which one do you write for?”

“I freelance for several.” Sarah listed them. “One of the editors who buys my pieces thought an article on ranching would appeal to her readers. I love the idea, and since I wanted to look around here, anyway, I happily accepted the assignment. I hope to meet with successful ranchers, but also those who are struggling, so that I can paint a realistic picture. Anything you can share about Saddlers Prairie will be a big help.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. You say you also want to look around town?”

“That’s right.” Sarah saw no reason to hide the truth. “I was adopted, but I recently learned that I was born in Saddlers Prairie.”

“No kidding. I know just about everyone. Who are your kin?”

“They don’t live around here anymore, but their last name is Becker—Bob and Judy.”

“The people you asked about.”

Sarah nodded. “They may have left the area before you arrived. I know they sold their house here about twenty-nine years ago.”

“There are folks in town who’ve been here longer than that. Someone will surely know the family you’re looking for.” Mrs. Yancy sipped her coffee. “I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”

“Would you?” Fresh hope bubbled through Sarah. “I really want to know the kind of people I come from.”

“I understand.” The landlady looked thoughtful. “Over my sixty-six years of living, I’ve learned a few things.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, as if she were about to divulge a secret. “One of the most important, which my John taught me, is that who you are matters more than your people or where you came from.”

Sarah wasn’t sure she agreed. “I still need to know,” she said. “If you were standing in my shoes, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose so. I wish I could help.” She looked genuinely sorry.

“You already have,” Sarah said. “By listening to my story.”

Clay had listened, too, with just as much interest.

She wished she could stop thinking about him. When she’d dated Matthew, she’d all but managed to forget Clay, and she wasn’t about to waste her time pining for him again.

If only he hadn’t kissed her.

A long and very thorough kiss that had stolen her breath and chased away her common sense. For those few moments, she’d been right back where she was three years ago, caring too much, too quickly for a man who couldn’t be trusted.

“—know a few ranchers around here who fit what you’re looking for and would love to be interviewed for your article,” Mrs. Yancy was saying. “If you want, I’ll give you names. There’s a pen and paper in the catch-all drawer under the phone.”

As soon as Sarah returned with the writing supplies, the woman rattled off the names, addresses and phone numbers of two ranchers. By heart.

“You’ll definitely want to contact Dawson Ranch,” she said. “Adam and Drew Dawson own about the most successful ranch around. Now the Lucky A Ranch isn’t as profitable, but Lucky Arnett is a good man with plenty of stories about his life as a rancher. I don’t want you to get writers’ cramp so I’ll save the rest for later.”

Smiling at the little joke, Sarah flexed her fingers and traded the pen for her mug. After months of grief and anger, Mrs. Yancy’s warmth and friendliness were like a balm to her parched soul.

“Wait—there is one more person you might want to talk with,” the older woman said. “He’s a celebrity with star power the world over, and he’s chosen Saddlers Prairie as his new home. I’m sure you’ve heard of him—his name is Clay Hollyer.”

Sarah almost choked on her coffee. “As a matter of fact, I know Clay. I interviewed him for an article a few years ago.”

Mrs. Yancy looked both impressed and curious. Not about to answer any questions about that time, Sarah hurried on. “Funny thing. Earlier this afternoon, when I first arrived in town, I stopped at the house where the Beckers used to live. The man who bought it from them still owns it, and I hoped to talk with him. It turns out, he doesn’t live there. He rented the house to Clay.”

“I know that place, and I know Ty Phillips. He runs the lumber company outside town, and has for years. I don’t think he lived in that house for long. Shelley wanted something brand-new, and after they married, he custom-built her a real nice home. Right now, they’re in Europe, taking a long-overdue vacation.”

“That’s what Clay said. So that house has always been a rental?”

“Since I’ve lived here. Mind you, Ty hasn’t always been able to find a renter. From time to time the place has stood empty. Even so, he’s managed to keep it in pretty decent condition.

“Back to Clay. He just bought the old Bates Ranch, a neglected ranch on the other side of town, and renamed it Hollyer Ranch. The main house there was in particularly bad shape, and he had it torn down. Now he’s building his own custom house and working on plans to start up a stock contracting business.”

Clay had mentioned building a house but hadn’t said a word about buying a ranch or beginning a new career. But then, Sarah hadn’t asked. His life seemed to have changed drastically from the spotlighted fame of before.

“I’m not sure I know what a stock contractor is,” she said.

“Those are the folks who supply stock—bulls, steers and horses—to rodeos around the country. A good business for a man who knows his bulls, as Clay does, wouldn’t you say? You should probably interview him, too.”

Oh, that would go over well. He’d probably slam the door in her face—or worse. Sarah managed a smile. “Thanks for the lead, but I’ll stick with ranchers who’ve been in business for a while.”

Chapter Three

As always, Clay awoke around 4:00 a.m., a good hour and change ahead of the birds. He’d had a bad night, and rolled over and tried to fall back into dreamland. But his mind wouldn’t cooperate, and thoughts buzzed in and out of his head like pesky gnats.

Groaning, he flipped onto his back. Before the accident, he’d always slept like the dead. Now, no matter how late he turned in or how tired he was, he woke up at this ungodly hour.

Propping his arms behind his head, he stared up into the darkness. And thought about Sarah. That kiss.

He still couldn’t believe she’d shown up at his door with her story and those big eyes, or that he’d let her in. If she’d just gone away when he asked her to. She’d had to ruin everything by stubbornly insisting she wanted to see the attic.

He wasn’t about to let her up there and wasn’t about to check it out himself, either. Not even to erase her pleading look. With his leg in the sorry shape it was, climbing a ladder would be agony.

Did she have a boyfriend? Probably, and if he found out about that kiss, he’d go ballistic. Clay would.

In any event, it had done its job, chasing her away. There was only one little problem—Clay hadn’t figured on the restless energy and hunger that kiss had stirred up, making him want what he had no business even thinking about. Sarah, naked under him, flushed and passionate.

He scoffed. Like that would ever happen. She thought he was a player.

“I’m no player,” he insisted into the silence. “I’m a straightforward guy who likes women.” What the hell was wrong with that?

Before he’d started winning bull-riding contests and making serious money, he’d even worked at building a solid relationship with the thought that it might lead to marriage. Denise had been too impatient, though. She’d wanted to get married right away, and when Clay wasn’t ready to commit, she’d walked. Same issue with Hailey, and a couple of years later, with Cara.

After striking out three times, Clay had finally figured out the problem. He’d been infatuated with his girlfriends, but nothing more. Not counting his mom, sister, aunt and grandmothers, he’d never loved a woman, and probably never would.

So he dated casually. He never led a woman on, always admitted up front that he was interested in having a good time, period.

“If that makes me a player,” he muttered, “then so be it.”

Sarah hadn’t even paid him the courtesy of checking out the facts. God knew where she’d gotten the cockeyed idea that he went around lying to women and breaking hearts.

Her article had brought a whole host of women to his door, most of them interested in grabbing some of his fame and money for themselves. Jeanne had been the worst of the bunch. She was cute and seemed nice enough. Clay had dated her on and off, making sure she understood that their relationship was casual and that he was dating other women, as well. She didn’t seem to mind.

Then a few hours before what turned out to be his last rodeo, after they hadn’t seen each other for a good six weeks, she’d shown up and announced that she was pregnant and he was responsible. Having always used protection, Clay had his doubts, but Jeanne swore that he was the only man she’d been intimate with.

It was not the kind of news a man needed to hear before a nationally televised bull ride with a six-figure purse. As upset and distracted as Clay was, he should’ve backed out of the event. He didn’t. Not because of the money, which he didn’t need, but because of his fans. He hadn’t wanted to disappoint them.

No wonder the bull had tossed him.

While he was still recuperating in the hospital, he’d insisted on a paternity test. No surprise there—he wasn’t the father.

Grumbling and out of sorts, he swung his legs over the bed without thinking—and paid for it. Swearing, he massaged the knots around his knee until the pain eased and carefully stood. His leg muscles were painfully tight, but thank heavens, not quite as tight as yesterday. Aspirin and rest had definitely helped.

While the coffee brewed, he pulled out the blueprints for the house and looked them over. After making the decision to buy the shipwreck of a ranch across town and rent the house he was in now, he’d hired a construction crew to renovate the ranch’s outbuildings and an architect to help him design his house. Now that the old one was gone and the builder had broken ground, Clay enjoyed reviewing the plans and checking on the progress.

Four bedrooms and three-and-a-half baths seemed a lot for a man who didn’t intend to have a family. Clay had always wanted kids, but he couldn’t see having one without a wife, and he wasn’t about to marry without love. Even if his mom kept dropping hints—make that blatant suggestions—that now that he was thirty-four it was time to settle down.

Before long, the caffeine worked its magic. Clay shoved to his feet, stowed the blueprints and headed for the large detached garage behind the house, which was insulated and had electricity, making it the ideal place for physical therapy.

After being shackled to a leg cast for what seemed an eternity and spending months in a wheelchair, his leg was in sorry shape, and laboring to rebuild his strength was not fun. The repetitive efforts the physical therapist had taught him taxed his leg muscles until they burned.

A hundred times over the next hellish hour, Clay wanted to quit, but he kept at it. Determined to get back to normal, or as near normal as possible, he sweated, grunted at and cursed the weights and pulleys, all the while knowing that without them, the muscles that had deteriorated would never regain their strength.

To think that two months after the accident, his doctor had wanted to amputate above the knee. Clay had refused. In the past eight months he’d made amazing progress, graduating from the wheelchair to crutches to a cane to none of the above, blowing his orthopedist’s socks off.

“And I’ll keep blowing your mind, Doc,” he’d stated, to psych himself up.

By the time he showered, dressed and ate, it was just after six o’clock—the start of a typical rancher’s workday. As of yet, he didn’t have a crew, but now that the barn and outbuildings were renovated and the foreman’s cottage and crew trailers were clean, he’d posted an ad on Craigslist for experienced ranch hands. He didn’t own any stock yet, either, and time hung like a weight around his neck.

Feeling lost and as a rudderless boat, he wandered to the hallway that held the attic door. Until yesterday he’d never even considered going up there. May as well test the leg, and while he did, look around.

With the help of a stepladder and several colorful oaths, he gritted his teeth against the pain and grasped the rope pull. The thing resisted coming loose but Clay yanked hard, and the door swung down.

He unfolded the attic ladder and climbed up, pausing after each step to rest his leg. The usual attic greeted him—a musty-smelling, dingy space, cold from the chilly morning air. A lone window caked in grime and a bare bulb hanging in the middle of the ceiling were the only sources of light and barely illuminated the area.

In need of a flashlight or a bulb with higher wattage, he headed back down, ignoring his leg. In no time, he was screwing in a new bulb.

Light blazed over the room, revealing old lamps, a faded armchair and other junk, everything blanketed with dust.

He almost missed the footlocker in the corner. Shoved against the wall, it was partially hidden under a musty throw. Clay unfastened the clasps and tried the lid, gratified when it opened with a soft creak.

Papers and whatnot almost filled the cavity. The 16 Magazine on top caught his attention. Duran Duran posed on the cover, flashing ’80s-style hair and clothes—something a teen girl would like. The date on the cover was January, 1982, which was when Tammy Becker had lived here.

Beneath the magazine, Clay found a small, dark red journal covered in faux leather. Private diary! Stay out! T. B. someone had written. Judging by the hearts replacing periods and the looping script, T.B. was a teenage girl.

This footlocker belonged to Sarah’s biological mom. That sixth sense of hers had been dead-on.

A chill climbed his neck.

No snoop, Clay closed the lid and refastened the latches. He dragged the heavy trunk from the corner, the metal grating over the rough floorboards and his damn knee threatening to buckle.

Grunting with effort, he hugged the big thing with one arm and awkwardly made his way down the ladder. By the time he reached the floor, sweat beaded his forehead and he was breathing like he’d just gone a round with a feisty bull.

Sarah’s card was still in the hip pocket of his jeans. Leaning heavily against the wall, Clay slid it out and held it lightly in his palm. At this hour, she was probably still asleep. He’d wait awhile, and then give her a call.

* * *

AFTER A SOLID night’s sleep, Sarah felt more rested than she had in ages. She donned a robe and flip-flops and wandered downstairs in search of coffee. Even before she reached the bottom step, she smelled bacon and something baking. Still waking up, she wasn’t hungry yet. All the same her mouth watered.

Standing at the stove, dressed, aproned and humming happily, Mrs. Yancy greeted her with a welcoming smile. “Good morning. It’s going to be a beautiful day. The biscuits are in the oven.”

“They sure smell good. So does that coffee.” Sarah stretched and yawned.

“Help yourself, dear, and sit down. Was your bed comfortable? Did you have enough blankets?”

After sleeping in the twin bed of her childhood for over a year—Sarah couldn’t get herself to use the bed that had been Ellen’s—the double bed here had seemed a luxury. “Everything was great, thanks. Your neighborhood is very peaceful.”

So was Ellen’s street in Boise, but since her death, Sarah rarely slept through the night. Her friends thought she should put the house on the market and buy a condo or a cottage, something without the memories. Sarah agreed, but if she wanted a good price for the property, both the house and the yard needed sprucing up—tasks she would tackle later. “It’s not so peaceful with all those chirping birds outside,” Mrs. Yancy said. “Between the warblers, sparrows and crows, it’s impossible for a body to sleep past dawn. Not that I ever have. Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

Slipping on oven mitts, she launched into a monologue about her bird feeder and the types of birds that visited. Her words barely slowed as she pulled the biscuits from the oven and deftly transferred them to a basket.

Sarah didn’t mind the chatter, as long as she didn’t have to participate. She needed a moment to sip her coffee and get her mind up and running. Thankfully, Mrs. Yancy seemed content to carry on the entire conversation by herself, reminding Sarah of Ellen.

Her mother was the last person she wanted to think about right now. As angry as she was about the lies, she missed Ellen dearly. If only she were still around and they could argue and cry and talk through this whole mess and move on...

Abruptly Mrs. Yancy’s chatter died. “You look sad, dear.”

“I was thinking about Ellen—my mother. She died six months ago. Do you need help with breakfast?”

“No, but go ahead and grab a plate from the cabinet and dish up your eggs and bacon at the stove. I’m sorry about your mother. Were you close?”

Not as close as Sarah had thought. “Most of the time,” she said.

“It’s good that you put off the search to find your biological mother until now. This way, your actual mother can’t get upset at what you’re doing.”

Having filled her plate, Sarah sat down at the table. “How could looking for my biological mother possibly have upset Ellen?”

“It just can.” Mrs. Yancy didn’t say another word until she brought over the biscuits and her own plate and sat down across the table. She let out a sigh. “I was terribly upset when my son decided to search for his biological mother.”

Sarah masked her surprise. Had Mrs. Yancy also kept the truth from her son, and if so, what were her reasons? How had he discovered the truth? Those and a thousand other questions came to mind, yet as open and easy as her breakfast companion was to talk to, Sarah didn’t know her well enough to ask such personal things. “Does your son live in town?” she asked, settling for a harmless enough question.

“Sadly, no. Tom lives in Billings with his wife and their three kids. He’s a good son. I visit them several times a year, and they come here now and then, but we don’t see each other nearly often enough.”

She turned her attention to her breakfast for a few moments before continuing. “He was twenty when he decided he wanted to reunite with his biological mother. She lives in Albuquerque. I’m embarrassed to admit this now, but at the time, I worried that he’d choose her over me. My John assured me otherwise, but all the same, I lost many a night’s sleep.”

Sarah had never even considered such a possibility. “How did it all work out?” she asked.

“Tom’s biological mother was thrilled to hear from him. She’d gotten pregnant at fifteen and knew she wasn’t ready to give him the stability and family he needed, but she’d always wanted to know him. She’d gone on to college, where she met her husband. They have two children—Tom has met the entire family.

“From time to time they talk on the phone, and once in a while they see each other, but I’m the one Tom visits on Mother’s Day. He says I nursed him when he was sick, hollered at him when he needed it and helped him with his schoolwork, and that makes me his real mother.”

“I never even thought about any of that,” Sarah admitted. Now that Mrs. Yancy had opened up, she felt safe asking a question. “What made Tom decide to find his biological mother? Had he just found out that he was adopted?”

“Heavens, no. We talked about that from the time he was old enough to understand—even before then. We always celebrated his adoption day with a cake and presents. He just wanted to meet her.”

Sarah chewed a forkful of eggs, then voiced her own question. “How did your family celebrate your adoption day?”

“We didn’t.” Ducking her head from the woman’s questioning look, Sarah slathered a biscuit with jam.

Comprehension, then sympathy dawned on Mrs. Yancy’s face. “Your mother never told you.”

Sarah shook her head. “I don’t even know if it was a closed adoption. I couldn’t find any paperwork. I just wish I knew why she kept something so important from me.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons.”

Whatever they were, Sarah would never know. She hoped Tammy Becker could shed some light on the matter.

“Your biological mother probably doesn’t know your actual mother’s reasons for keeping the adoption secret,” Mrs. Yancy said as if she’d read Sarah’s mind. “She probably never met your mother.”

“No, but they may have exchanged letters.”

Sarah hoped. She hadn’t found any, but her mother had been a no-nonsense woman who liked a tidy house. She’d never been the type to save things. Or maybe she’d simply disposed of any correspondence so Sarah wouldn’t accidentally find it. But then, why leave the birth certificate in her safe-deposit box?

Sarah wanted answers, needed them, in order to make sense of things. So that she could at least gain some insight into why her mother had kept the adoption a secret.

“Are there any family members you could ask—grandparents or cousins?” Mrs. Yancy said.

“No.”

“What about friends of your parents?”

“I asked my mother’s best friend, her church friends and the women from her bridge club. Not a single person knew that I was adopted. My parents moved to Boise when I was a baby, and I guess the subject never came up.”

Another baffling shock Sarah couldn’t get over. Keeping such a huge secret from even your most trusted friends seemed unimaginable and beyond comprehension.

Why?

The question reverberated through her head as it had for months, making her crazy with the what-ifs that circled right back to the original question.

Why?

Weary of that dead-end question, she broached a different subject. “I thought I’d call the Dawson brothers and Lucky Arnett today and set up interviews. I’m also planning to explore the area. Should I get a key so that I don’t have to bother you with my coming and going?”

“No need—I never lock my door. Well, that’s not quite true. When I leave town, I do.”

Clay Hollyer kept his door locked. Sarah remembered the loud click of the deadbolt as he slid it back. “Even in quiet, safe Boise, we lock our doors,” she said.

“Here, most of us don’t. Although there are people who lock their doors for one reason or another.”

No doubt, Clay didn’t want any nosy reporters walking into his house. Which was exactly what he’d taken her for.

“The Tates, my next-door neighbors, started locking their door last summer.” Mrs. Yancy dived into a comical story of the time Mr. Tate’s unwanted relatives showed up and made themselves comfortable while the couple was out for the day. Which led into a story of another friend’s cow, which somehow figured out how to open the gate to the back garden.

In no time, the amusing stories pushed all thoughts of Ellen from Sarah’s mind.

She laughed and let out an inward sigh of relief. When the meal ended, she was still smiling.

* * *

AFTER BREAKFAST, MRS. YANCY refused Sarah’s offer to help clean up. “You’re a paying guest, and you’re not supposed to do the breakfast dishes,” she said. “But you can sit and keep me company awhile longer.”

Mrs. Yancy suggested places to see in the area. Sarah was at the table, jotting down notes, when her cell phone rang.

Private caller, the screen said, and she almost let it go to voice mail. But she never had been good at ignoring calls. What if an editor with a blocked number was calling about an assignment? She picked up. “This is Sarah Tigarden.”

“It’s Clay.”

The deep, slightly gruff voice sounded rusty, as if he’d just awakened. Sarah pictured him in a T-shirt and rumpled pair of pajama bottoms, his hair sticking up and stubble on his face.

Her heart fluttered and her whole body warmed. Shifting nervously, she glanced at Mrs. Yancy, who was busy wiping down the stove. As if the older woman could save her from her unwanted feelings.

Schooling her wayward emotions, she managed a cool, “Hello, Clay. What do you want?”

A rude question, but she needed him to understand that she hadn’t asked for and didn’t appreciate that kiss.

Okay, that was so not true.

Mrs. Yancy’s head whipped around, her eyebrows rising comically up her forehead.

Clay cleared his throat, as if the question threw him. “I was up in the attic this morning.”

He’d found something. Sarah gripped the phone. “Oh?” she said, barely masking her excitement.

“I don’t know how you knew to check the attic, but I’ve got a footlocker here that I’m pretty sure belonged to Tammy.”

Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. “You found a footlocker that probably belonged to Tammy,” she paraphrased for Mrs. Yancy’s benefit. “When can I take a look at it?”

“This morning is good.”

Moments later, she disconnected. “I’ll make those calls to the ranchers later. I’m going back to Clay’s to see that footlocker.”

“Don’t you think you should put on some clothes first?” Behind her bifocals, Mrs. Yancy’s eyes twinkled.

In her eagerness, Sarah had forgotten she was still in her robe and pajamas. “Right. Excuse me while I shower and dress.”

Some thirty minutes later, wearing her favorite jeans, the ones that flattered her rear end, she headed downstairs. Mrs. Yancy was waiting for her in the living room.

“You’re wearing makeup, and the royal blue color of that blouse brings out the blue in your eyes and the roses in your cheeks. Clay is sure to notice how pretty you are.”

Sarah blushed. “I’m not interested in him.” At least, she didn’t want to be. She felt compelled to add, “This is how I usually dress—except for days like yesterday, when I was on the road, traveling.”

“Well, you look lovely. I’ll be interested to know what you find in that footlocker.”

“I’ll let you know,” Sarah said. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

“No worries. If I’m not here, walk on in and make yourself at home.”

Grateful for the woman’s trust and kindness, Sarah smiled and hurried out the door.

Chapter Four

Clay assured himself that he only wanted to see Sarah again to show her the trunk. But when he opened the door to let her in, he knew he’d lied to himself.

The blue sky and the cheerful bird calls filling the air made for your average middle-of-May morning. But Sarah on the porch lifted the day from pleasant to near-perfect. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman Clay had ever known, but at that moment, she ranked right up there.

Excitement radiated from her, making her eyes sparkle and tinting her cheeks pink. He wouldn’t let himself even glance at her mouth, but his gaze unwittingly roved over the rest of her, to the bright blue blouse that curved over her small breasts, and lower, to the jeans that hugged her hips and long legs.

He cleared his throat. “You look rested.” And hot. Very hot.

“I am. I slept really well.”

She wouldn’t have if she’d shared his bed. Images of her naked under him flitted through his head. Images that would only lead to trouble.

“Did you call your boyfriend and tell him about the footlocker?” he asked, wondering if she’d also mentioned that kiss.

“I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

Clay half wished she was, if only to underline that she was off-limits.

“Are you going to let me in?” she asked, a smile tugging her lips.

Mentally smacking his head, he widened the door and stepped back. “I put the footlocker in the spare bedroom.”

“The one where Tammy slept. Great.”

She started forward, and Clay caught a whiff of that perfume.

And reminded himself that Sarah might smell and taste sweet, but underneath, she was anything but. She’d dissed him in print, and only a fool would forget that.

Best to let her take the trunk with her and sift through the contents someplace else. He opened his mouth to say so. “You want a cup of coffee?” came out instead. “It’s leftover from breakfast,” he added so she wouldn’t think he’d made a pot special for her.

“That’d be great. I drink it black.”

By the time he microwaved and brought the steaming mug to the spare bedroom, she was seated cross-legged on the braided rug in front of the open footlocker. She was holding on to Tammy’s journal, running her fingertips slowly over the Stay out! warning, like a blind woman reading Braille.

She startled when she noticed him in the doorway, but also looked relieved that he’d come back. When she started to stand, Clay gestured at her to stay where she was and brought the mug to her.

“Thanks,” she said with a fleeting smile.

Her fingers were ice-cold and her face pinched and anxious. Clay realized that, as eager as she was to learn about Tammy Becker, this was scary for her.

He hadn’t intended to hang around, needed to contact the men who’d replied to his Craigslist ad and research new rodeo producers to contact. But Sarah looked up at him, her eyes wide and pleading for him to stay. Tethering him.

“This was Tammy’s journal,” she said in a voice that shook with feeling. “I’ve been so anxious to find out everything I can about her. But now...I don’t know why I’m so hesitant to read it.”

God help him, he couldn’t leave her, not like this. “You want company?” he asked.

“I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“Nothing that won’t keep a few hours.” He grabbed the flimsy chair from behind the student’s desk. Straddling it backward, he sat down.

Sarah shot him a grateful look that made him feel good about staying, and opened the journal. “She started writing in here in January, 1982, on her fifteenth birthday. Listen to this. ‘Marsha gave me this diary for my birthday. Rad! Mom and Dad said no boys could come to my party. They are so lame! The party was fun anyway. Marsha, Steffie and Jillian came. They’re super lucky because they all have boyfriends. I don’t, but I want one. When I get one, I’ll have to sneak around. Mom and Dad don’t want me doing anything except go to school, do my homework and go to church. Boooring.’”

Sarah glanced at Clay and shrugged. “That’s it for the first journal entry.” She thumbed through the pages. “She didn’t write much in here.” The pages rustled as she flipped to the end. “About a year later, she stopped altogether.”

For a moment she was quiet, reading. “Listen to this, Clay. It’s one of the last entries. ‘My period was supposed to start two weeks ago. I’ve been a few days late before, but never this late. What if I’m pregnant? I can’t be, or Mom and Dad will kill me.’”

Sarah bit her bottom lip. “She must’ve been so scared and lonely. Here’s what she says a week later. ‘Our youth group took a field trip to Regina, Canada. The bus ride took almost eight hours! Mrs. Guthrie made the boys and girls sit separately. She’s almost as strict as my parents.

‘After dinner, B and I snuck away from the other kids. We bought a pregnancy-test kit. You can get them in the drugstore up here—wait till I tell my friends. I couldn’t take the test in my room, because I’m sharing with Misty Jones. If I spent too much time in the bathroom, she’d wonder what I was up to and tell on me. She’s such a goody two shoes.

‘So I took the test in the bathroom of a gas station while B waited for me outside the door.’” Sarah took a sip of her coffee. “I wonder who B is?”

“Probably the guy she was sleeping with.”

“You mean my biological father. I’d sure like to know his name.” She returned to the journal entry. “‘The worst has happened. I’m pregnant. The whole rest of the trip and all the way home, I prayed and prayed to God to take this baby up to heaven. If He doesn’t, B and I don’t know what we’ll do.’ That’s the last thing she wrote.”

With a heavy sigh, Sarah closed the book. “Poor Tammy.”

Clay was more interested in Sarah. Compassion and caring brushed her features with softness. Her eyes were shadowed and sorrowful, as if she knew exactly how Tammy had felt. For all Clay knew, she could’ve experienced a teenage pregnancy herself.

“Do you know anyone else who’s gone through something like that?” he asked.

“A girl in my college dorm. But she was almost twenty-one. She and her boyfriend got married and as far as I know, they’re happy. When you’re sixteen, pregnancy has to be that much more difficult and lonely.”

Clay knew something about teen pregnancy. “It is. My junior year of high school, one of my female friends got pregnant.”

Sarah’s expression shifted to surprise, then something much different. “Was the baby yours?”

The cool lift of her chin rankled. Figured she’d think that. “She was just a friend, Sarah. We never even kissed each other. My dad didn’t want me getting into trouble like him. He raised me to be careful, and I always have been.”

“With all the women you’ve slept with, you’d be crazy not to.”

She sounded offended, almost angry. But her article had ruined his life, not the other way around. Clay bristled. “What have you got against me?”

“Nothing.” Her lips clamped shut, but only for a moment. “What did your friend do about the baby?”

“Like the girl you knew in college, she got married. Because she and her boyfriend were so young, their parents had to sign a document that it was okay. But the marriage didn’t work out, and a few months after their son was born, they split up. The baby’s father paid what he could to help out, but he didn’t have a high-school diploma, and didn’t earn much. My friend ended up moving back in with her parents while she earned her GED and got on her feet financially.”

Sarah looked thoughtful. “Do you think...do you think Tammy’s parents accepted her pregnancy?”

“If they had, would she have given you up for adoption?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She hugged the journal close, the yearning on her face making Clay’s chest ache. “I would guess that the family left town because of Tammy’s pregnancy, except my birth certificate says I was born in Saddlers Prairie. But if they stayed here, why did they sell the house, and why did they leave this trunk and Tammy’s bedroom furniture here? If this stuff is even hers.”

She set the journal aside and massaged her temples, as if so many unknowns gave her a headache.

Clay could only wonder at the answers to those questions. Despite himself, he was beyond curious. He wanted to know what had happened to the Becker family, and especially Tammy. “She mentioned church a couple times, and her youth group. Maybe you can find out which one the family belonged to, and do some research there.”

“Good idea. There can’t be that many churches around here.” Sarah gestured at the papers in the footlocker. “Maybe there’s something in here about where the family went.”

She rolled onto her knees in an easy move Clay envied. If he tried that, his bad knee would scream. Kneeling in front of the footlocker, she began to pull things out and stack them around her.

From where Clay sat, he had a great view of her backside. From time to time, her blouse rode up, revealing tantalizing glimpses of smooth skin. He told himself to look away, but didn’t.

In no time, record albums, three-ring binders, spiral notebooks and a couple of skinny high-school yearbooks piled up around her. One too-tall stack toppled sideways, just missing Sarah’s barely tasted coffee. Which was probably cold by now.

“Why don’t you give me that mug,” he said.

“Oh. Sure—thanks.”

She arched backward and massaged the small of her back, causing her breasts to jut out. Clasping the handle of the mug, she reached across the mess, and handed it over. Her skin was warm now.

Clay was hot enough to boil water, and the brief slide of the backs of her fingers against his palm only upped his temperature.

Oblivious to his feelings, Sarah pored over an old report card. “This is from January of her junior year. I was born that August, which means she was barely pregnant. She may not even have known yet. She got an A in English, but almost flunked math. I was the same way.” Sarah glanced around and frowned. “I don’t see any other report cards. I wonder if they got tossed out, or maybe she dropped out of school before the end of her junior year.”

“Could be either one. Why don’t you check those yearbooks and see what you can find out? I’d start with the one from her junior year.”

“There isn’t one,” she said. “Just the freshman and sophomore years. She went to a school called Four City High School.”

“Saddlers Prairie is too small for its own high school,” Clay told her. “We have a one-room school that goes through eighth grade. The older kids are bussed to the high school. If it were me, I’d check out Four City. Maybe one of her high-school teachers is still teaching there or lives somewhere close.”

“I will.” Sarah opened the yearbook from Tammy’s sophomore year and propped the book on her lap. “Lots of kids signed Tammy’s yearbook, but I don’t see anything special. Just the usual, ‘Have a great summer’ and ‘See you at church camp.’ No mention of anyone with the initial B, and nothing signed by a boy whose name begins with that letter. But then, maybe Tammy didn’t have a boyfriend yet. I wish she’d written something in her journal about him.”

She flipped to the class pictures. After staring at the page with Tammy’s photo, she held it up for Clay to see. “That’s her, on the left. Neither of my adoptive parents had a wide mouth like mine, and I always wondered where I got it.” Clearly emotional, she swallowed. “Now I know.”

“Let me see that.”

Clay stood. Sitting too long had caused his knee to stiffen up, and he winced as he joined Sarah on the rug.

“Are you in pain?”

“Still healing from an injury.” Not wanting to invite questions, which would lead to the pity he detested, he studied the yearbook.

The girl staring from the photo was pretty, with big eyes and a begging-to-be-kissed bottom lip, a teenage version of Sarah. “You have her face shape and eyes, too,” he said.

“I noticed that.” She fiddled with an earring. “I wonder what color her eyes were. With black-and-white photos, you can’t tell.”

Clay had no idea and didn’t care. He was lost in the expressive depths of Sarah’s eyes. Something sweet and warm passed between them, a bond of sorts, born out of sharing the contents of the old footlocker.

Cheeks flushed, she dropped her gaze to the yearbook on her lap. “I wish there were more pictures of her. And at least one of her parents. My grandparents.”

Though her gaze remained on the yearbook, Clay had the feeling she wasn’t seeing it.

“I hardly remember my adoptive grandparents,” she said. “A car accident took my maternal grandparents before I was born, and I was three when my father’s parents died in a plane crash. Two horrible tragedies.”

Clay had always taken his parents and four grandparents for granted. They all lived a few miles from each other in Billings, along with his aunt, his sister, her husband and their two kids. He’d never even imagined what his life would’ve been like without them.

Sarah had no living relatives except, possibly, for her biological parents and grandparents—people she’d never even met. That had to feel lonely, worse than any emptiness Clay had experienced.

“You never know, you might find photos buried somewhere in this stuff,” he said.

“Which is why I’m going to look carefully through everything.”

That could take hours—days, for that matter. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle having Sarah around that long.

Looking thoughtful, she tapped her finger to her mouth. “I wonder what her friends thought about the pregnancy, and how the school reacted.”

“Thirty years ago, in a small town? Probably not well.”

Once more, her beautiful eyes met his. “I feel so bad for Tammy. I would really like to meet her and talk about it.”

Clay hoped she got that chance. He wanted her to find and reunite with her relatives, so that the shadows and worry faded from her face.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Clay,” she said as if she’d read his mind. “I’ve been alone for a while now, and I’m okay.”

He had no doubt of that. He’d never met a woman like her. She was strong and didn’t flirt or fall all over him.

Most of the women he’d known said what they thought he wanted to hear, instead of speaking their minds. Sarah didn’t seem to have that problem. At times, she seemed cool and distant, but right now, she was open and warm, just as when she’d followed him around for that piece she was writing about him.

Back then, he’d been so sure she cared for him—not as a rodeo star, as a man.

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