Return to peaceful Crossroads, Texas, where community comes first and love thrives in the unlikeliest places...

Yancy Grey is slowly putting his life back together after serving time for petty theft. As he rebuilds an old house, he finally has a sense of stability, but he can’t stop thinking of himself as just an ex-con. Until one night, he finds a mysterious dark-haired beauty hiding in his loft. But who is she, and what secret is she protecting?

The art gallery Parker Lacey manages is her life—she has no time for friends, and certainly not lovers. But when her star artist begs Parker for help, she finds herself in a pickup truck, headed for the sleepy town of Crossroads. A truck driven by a strong, silent cowboy...

Gabe Snow has been a drifter since he left Crossroads at seventeen after a violent incident. When he accepts a job in his hometown, he’ll have to decide whether he can put the worst night of his life behind him and build a future in the community that raised him.

Praise for Jodi Thomas

and her RANSOM CANYON series

“Compelling and beautifully written, it is exactly the kind of heart-wrenching, emotional story one has come to expect from Jodi Thomas.”

—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Thomas sketches a slow, sweet surrender.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Jodi Thomas is a masterful storyteller. She grabs your attention on the first page, captures your heart, and then makes you sad when it’s time to bid her wonderful characters farewell. You can count on Jodi Thomas to give you a satisfying and memorable read.”

—Catherine Anderson, New York Times bestselling author

“Thomas is a wonderful storyteller.”

—RT Book Reviews on Rustler’s Moon

“Western romance legend Thomas’s Ransom Canyon will warm readers with its huge heart and gentle souls.”

—Library Journal

“A pure joy to read.”

—RT Book Reviews

Sunrise Crossing

Jodi Thomas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

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

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Flight

January 2012

LAX

VICTORIA VILANIE CURLED into a ball, trying to make herself small, trying to disappear. Her black hair spread around her like a cape but couldn’t protect her.

All the sounds in the airport were like drums playing in a jungle full of predators. Carts with clicking wheels rolling on pitted tiles. People shuffling and shouting and complaining. Electronic voices rattling off numbers and destinations. Babies crying. Phones ringing. Winter’s late storm pounding on walls of glass.

Victoria, Tori to her few friends, might not be making a sound, but she was screaming inside.

Tears dripped off her face, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. The noise closed in around her, making her feel so lonely in the crowd of strangers.

She was twenty-four, and everyone said she was a gifted artist. Money poured in so fast it had become almost meaningless, only a number that brought no joy. But tonight all she wanted was silence, peace, a world where she could hide out.

She scrubbed her eyes on her sleeve and felt a hand touch her shoulder like it were a bird, featherlight, landing there.

Tori turned and recognized a woman she’d seen once before. The tall blonde in her midthirties owned one of the best galleries in Dallas. Who could forget Parker Lacey’s green eyes? She was a woman who had it all and knew how to handle her life. A born general who must manage her life as easily as she managed her business.

“Are you all right, Tori?” Parker asked.

Tori could say nothing but the truth. “I’m living the wrong life.”

Then the strangest thing happened. The lady with green eyes hugged her and Tori knew, for the first time in years, that someone had heard her, really heard her.

CHAPTER TWO

The stone-blue days of winter

February

Dallas, Texas

PARKER LACEY SAT perfectly straight on the side of her hospital bed. Her short, sunny blond hair combed, her makeup in place and her logical mind in control of all emotions, as always.

She’d ignored the pain in her knee, the throbbing in her leg, for months. She ignored it now.

She’d been poked and examined all day, and now all that remained before the curtain fell on her life was for some doctor she barely knew to tell her just how long she had left to live. A month. Six months. If she was lucky, a year?

Her mother had died when Parker was ten. Breast cancer at thirty-one. Her father died eight years later. Lung cancer at thirty-nine. Neither parent had made it to their fortieth birthday.

Longevity simply didn’t run in Parker’s family. She’d known it and worried about dying all her adult life, and at thirty-seven, she realized her number would come up soon. Only she’d been smarter than all her ancestors. She would leave no offspring. There would be no next generation of Laceys. She was the last in her family.

There were also no lovers, or close friends, she thought. Her funeral would be small.

The beep of her cell phone interrupted her morbid thoughts.

“Hello, Parker speaking,” she said.

“I’m in!” came a soft voice. “I followed the map. It was just a few miles from where the bus stopped. The house is perfect, and your housekeeper delivered more groceries than I’ll be able to eat in a year. And, Parker, you were right. This isolated place will be heaven.”

Parker forgot her problems. She could worry about dying later. Right now, she had to help one of her artists. “Tori, are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“Yes. I did it just the way you suggested. Kept my head down. Dressed like a boy. Switched buses twice. One bus driver even told me to ‘Hurry along, kid.’”

“Good. No one will probably connect me with you and no one knows I own a place in Crossroads. Stay there. You’ll be safe. You’ll have time to relax and think.”

“They’ll question you when they realize I’ve vanished,” Tori said. “My stepfather won’t just let me disappear. I’m worth too much money to him.”

Parker laughed, trying to sound reassuring. “Of course, people will ask how well we know one another. I’ll say I’m proud to show your work in my gallery and that we’ve only met a few times at gallery openings.” Both facts were true. “Besides, it’s no crime to vanish, Tori. You are an adult.”

Victoria Vilanie was silent on the other end. She’d told Parker that she’d been on a manic roller coaster for months. The ride had left her fragile, almost shattered. Since she’d been thirteen and been “discovered” by the art community, her stepfather had quit his job and become her handler.

“Tori,” Parker whispered into the phone, “you’re not the tiger in a circus. You’ll be fine. You can stand on your own. There are professionals who will help you handle your career without trying to run your life.”

“I know. It’s just a little frightening.”

“It’s all right, Tori. You’re safe. You don’t have to face the reporters. You don’t have to answer any questions.” Parker hesitated. “I’ll come if you need me.”

“I’d like that.”

No one would ever believe that Parker would stick her neck out so far to help a woman she barely knew. Maybe she and Tori had each recognized a fellow loner, or maybe it was just time in her life that she did something different, something kind.

“No matter what happens,” Tori whispered, “I want to thank you. You’ve saved my life. I think if I’d had to go another week, I might have shattered into a million pieces.”

Parker wanted to say that she doubted it was that serious, but she wasn’t sure the little artist wasn’t right. “Stay safe. Don’t tell the couple who take care of the house anything. You’re just visiting, remember? Have them pick up anything you need from town. You’ll find art supplies in the attic room if you want to paint.”

“Found the supplies already, but I think I just want to walk around your land and think about my life. You’re right. It’s time I started taking my life back.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Parker had read every mystery she could find since she was eight. If Tori wanted to disappear, Parker should be able to figure out how to make it happen. After all, how hard could it be?

The hospital door opened.

Parker clicked off the disposable phone she’d bought at the airport a few weeks ago when she and Tori talked about how to make Tori vanish.

“Miss Parker?” A young doctor poked his head into her room. He didn’t look old enough to be out of college, much less med school, but this was a teaching hospital, one of the best in the country. “I’m Dr. Brown.”

“It’s Miss Lacey. My first name is Parker,” she said as she pushed the phone beneath her covers. Hiding it as she was hiding the gifted artist.

The kid of a doctor moved into the room. “You any kin to Quanah Parker? We get a few people in here every year descended from the great Comanche chief.”

She knew what the doctor was trying to do. Establish rapport before he gave her the bad news, so she played along. “That depends. How old was he when he died?”

The doctor shrugged. “I’m not much of a history buff, but my folks stopped at every historical roadside marker in Texas and Oklahoma when I was growing up. I think the great warrior was old when he died, real old. Had six wives, I heard, when he passed peacefully in his sleep on his ranch near a town that bears his name.”

“If he lived a long life, I’m probably not kin to him. And to my knowledge, I have no Native American blood and no living relatives.” By the time she’d been old enough to ask, no one around remembered why she was named Parker and she had little interest in exploring a family tree with such short branches.

“I’m so sorry.” Then he grinned. “I could give you a couple of my sisters. Ever since I got out of med school they think I’m their private dial a doc. They even call me to ask if TV shows get it right.”

“No, thanks. Keep your sisters.” She tried to smile.

“There are times when it’s good to have family around.” He said, “Would you like me to call someone for you? A close friend, maybe?”

She glanced up and read all she needed to know in the young man’s eyes. She was dying. He looked terrible just giving her the news. Maybe this was the first time he’d ever had to tell anyone that their days were numbered.

“How long do I have to hang around here?”

The doc checked her chart and didn’t meet her gaze as he said, “An hour, maybe two. When you come back, we’ll make you as comfortable here as we can but you’ll need—”

She didn’t give him time to list what she knew came next. She’d watched her only cousin go through bone cancer when they were in high school. First, there would be surgery on her leg. Then they wouldn’t get it all and she’d have chemo. Round after round until her hair and spirit disappeared. No, she wouldn’t do that. She’d take the end head-on.

The doctor broke into her thoughts. “We can give you shots in that left knee. It’ll make the pain less until—”

“Okay, I’ll come back when I need it,” she said, not wanting to give him time to talk about how she might lose her leg or her life. If she let him say the word cancer, she feared she might start screaming and never stop.

She knew she limped when she was tired and her knee sometimes buckled on her. Her back already hurt, and her whole left leg felt weak sometimes. The cancer must be spreading; she’d known it was there for months, but she’d kept putting off getting a checkup. Now she knew it would only get worse. More pain. More drugs, until it finally traveled to her brain. Maybe the doctor didn’t want her to hang around and suffer? Maybe the shots would knock her out. She’d feel nothing until the very end. She’d just wait for death as her cousin had. She’d visited him every day. Watching him grow weaker, watching the staff grow sadder.

Hanging around had never been her way, and it wouldn’t be now.

A nurse in scrubs that were two sizes too small rushed into the room and whispered, loud enough for Parker to hear, “We’ve got an emergency, Doctor. Three ambulances are bringing injured in from a bad wreck. Pileup on I-35. Can you break away to help?”

The doctor flipped the chart closed. “No problem. We’re finished here.” He nodded to Parker. “We’ll have time to talk later, Miss Parker. You’ve got a few options.”

She nodded back, not wanting to hear the details anyway. What did it matter? He didn’t have to say the word cancer for her to know what was wrong.

He was gone in a blink.

The nurse’s face molded into a caring mask. “What can I do to make you more comfortable? You don’t need to worry, dear. I’ve helped a great many people go through this.”

“You can hand me my clothes,” Parker said as she slid off the bed. “Then you can help me leave.” She was used to giving orders. She’d been doing it since she’d opened her art gallery fifteen years ago. She’d been twenty-two and thought she had forever to live.

“Oh, but...” The nurse’s eyes widened as if she were a hen and one of her chickens was escaping the coop.

“No buts. I have to leave now.” Parker raised her eyebrow silently, daring the nurse to question her.

Parker stripped off the hospital gown and climbed into the tailored suit she’d arrived in before dawn. The teal silk blouse and cream-colored jacket of polished wool felt wonderful against her skin compared with the rough cotton gown. Like a chameleon changing color, she shifted from patient to tall, in-control businesswoman.

The nurse began to panic again. “Is someone picking you up? Were you discharged? Has the paperwork already been completed?”

“No to the first question. I drove myself here and I’ll drive myself away. And yes, I was discharged.” Parker tossed her things into the huge Coach bag she’d brought in. If her days were now limited, she wanted to make every one count. “I have to do something very important. I’ve no time to mess with paperwork. Mail the forms to me.”

Parker walked out while the nurse went for a wheelchair. Her mind checked off the things she had to do as her high heels clicked against the hallway tiles. It would take a week to get her office in order. She wanted the gallery to run smoothly while she was gone.

She planned to help a friend, see the colors of life and have an adventure. Then, when she passed, she would have lived, if only for a few months.

After climbing into her special-edition Jaguar, she gunned the engine. She didn’t plan to heed any speed-limit signs. Caution was no longer in her vocabulary.

The ache in her leg whispered through her body when she bent her knee, but Parker ignored it. No one had told her what to do since she entered college and no one, not even Dr. Brown, would set rules now.

CHAPTER THREE

Crossroads, Texas

YANCY GREY WALKED the midnight streets, barely noticing where he was going or caring that winter’s breath still circled in the breeze.

Today was his birthday. Or at least he thought it was. His mother’s memory had been smothered with pills most of his childhood. She’d told him she’d filled out the birth certificate a week or so after he’d been born when she’d finally healed and sobered enough to walk to the clinic in Crossroads, Texas.

When Yancy had run away at fourteen, he doubted she’d noticed. She’d never celebrated his birth, and after he left, he continued the nontradition through his wandering teen years and his early twenties, which he’d spent in prison. And now, he thought, during his calm years in Texas.

He was alone at thirty-two and wise enough to realize that it wasn’t a bad place to be. The old folks at the Evening Shadows Retirement Community, where he worked, would have thrown him a birthday party if they’d known, but they were all tucked in their beds by dark. They counted away what was left of their lives, but Yancy wanted to count forward.

He’d been with the retired teachers for seven years now, repairing their homes, managing the twenty-cottage complex that had started as an eight-bungalow motel set in a town where two highways crossed. The school system had originally bought the old motel, hoping to offer small homes to new teachers, but those retiring from teaching had wanted to stay in town and together.

Yancy drove the old residents to the doctor and picked up their prescriptions. He cared about and for them. He repaired everything around the place and built a new cottage now and then when a single teacher needed a place to live out his or her days in peace.

In return, they all loved him and tried to pass down their wisdom. Cap taught him carpentry and plumbing, and Miss Bees had taught him to cook. Leo was a wizard with money and had him investing, and Mrs. Abernathy had even tried to teach him to play the piano. No matter what project he took on, Yancy knew there would be someone waiting to advise him on every detail.

Yancy sometimes thought he’d gone from high school to grad school in the years he’d been employed by the teachers. They were a wealth of knowledge, and he was a ready pupil.

But when it came to women, nothing they said worked. He hadn’t had a date in months, and the two he’d had last year had convinced him that being single wasn’t so bad. There seemed to be no family for him, past or future. No girl wanted to be seen with an ex-con, handyman, drifter, no matter how nice he was or how much her grandmother bragged about him.

Looking up, he saw the old gypsy house a quarter mile away, far enough from the lights to not be in town and close enough to not be completely outside it. His place. Nestled among the barren elm trees, the house still looked haunted, even if he had framed up the second floor and repaired the roof. The trash and tumbleweeds were gone, but no grass or flowers grew near the porches. Like him, the place didn’t quite fit in among the others in town.

Yancy had built a workshop behind the hundred-year-old crumbling remains so that he could rebuild the old house better than it had been built a century ago. The workshop looked more like a small barn, with a high roof and a loft for storing supplies. Inside, the bay was big enough to hold six cars, but he’d set up long worktables and saws he’d bought at flea markets and yard sales.

This crumbling home and five acres of dirt surrounding it might not look like much, but it was his, all his. A grandmother he’d never met had left it to him, along with enough money to pay the taxes for years. He didn’t care that he had no relative to ever send a birthday or Christmas present for the rest of his life. This was enough.

Last Christmas, the ladies at the Evening Shadows had held a fund-raiser in his barn. They’d hung quilts to cover the walls of tools and shelves, then loaded the tables with homemade sweets and crafts. He swore everyone in town had come and bought an armful, whether they needed a new tissue-box cover or reindeer coaster set or not.

He’d loved helping the ladies out, but was glad when his shop was back in order. Old Cap had taught him that there needed to be a place for everything, and Yancy believed he could have located, with his eyes closed, any tool on his walls.

From the first day he found out the place had been willed to him, Yancy had decided to start remodeling from the inside out. When he finished, the place would shine. He’d move into a real home for the first time in his life. The house might have held only sadness and hate thirty-one years ago when his mother lived here during her pregnancy, but he’d rebuild it with the love of a craftsman who’d learned his skills in prison and had dreamed of a project like this one.

The workshop door creaked a little when he opened it.

Yancy smiled. He liked the sound; it was like the place was welcoming him.

As he did every other night, he tugged off his coat, hung it on the latch and began to work. Tonight he’d sand down aged boards that would eventually be polished and grooved to fit perfectly in the upstairs rooms of the house. He’d turned the four little rooms downstairs into one open space, with a kitchen on the back wall and a long bar separating it from the living space. The bar had taken him three months and was made out of one piece of oak.

He’d bought a radio months ago, thinking that music might be nice while he worked, but most nights he forgot to turn it on. He liked the silence and the rhythm of the midnight shadows, and he liked being alone with his thoughts and dreams. Seven years ago, when he’d arrived, he’d had nothing but a few clothes that were left over from before he’d gone to prison. Now he was a rich man. He had a job he loved and he had the silence of the night in which to think.

As he began to sand the wood and carve away the stress of the day, the loneliness of his nights and the worries he always had about the tenants he cared for all slipped away as his muscles welcomed the work.

This was what he needed. A passion. A job. A goal to move toward. When he finished, he’d have pride in what he’d done, and no one could take that from him.

After a while, he heard a sound above his head. A slight movement, as if someone had shifted atop the loose boards stacked along one side of the loft.

Another sound. The creaking of the flooring.

As he had each time for a week when this had happened, he didn’t react. He simply kept working. If the invisible visitor had meant him any harm, he would have known it long before now. Maybe some frightened animal had taken shelter from the last month of winter, or maybe a drifter just wanted a warm place to rest before moving on. He’d been there in his teens. He knew how much a quiet, safe place could mean.

Yancy was lost in his work an hour later when a loose board shifted above and tumbled down.

A little squeak followed.

Yancy waited, then said calmly, “If you’re trying to kill me, you’ll need to toss down something bigger than a two-by-four.”

“Sorry,” came a whisper.

“No harm. I’ve known you were up there for a while. Want to come down and say hello?”

No answer.

“I got a thermos of hot coffee I haven’t had time to drink. You’re welcome to it.”

“You’re not calling the police?”

“Nope. Sheriff probably has his own coffee.”

Yancy thought he heard a hiccup of a laugh.

A slight woman dressed in jeans and a blue-checked flannel shirt moved down the ladder. Her long, dark braid brushed her backside as she lowered from step to step.

“I didn’t mean to spy on you,” she said, without looking at him. “The barn wasn’t locked, and I just wanted to be out of the cold a few nights ago. It smells so good in here I’ve found myself coming back.”

“It’s the fresh-cut wood. I love the smell, too.” He went back to work. “So, you walk at night also? It’s a habit of mine.”

She nodded. “I don’t usually come this close to town, but walking seems better than trying to sleep.”

“I know what you mean.” He handed her the thermos. “Coffee’s strong. It was left over from where I work, but it’s hot. Should take off the chill.”

She untwisted the lid and poured herself half a cup. “I like the sounds of the night and the way I can walk without having to speak to anyone. I can just walk and be a part of the land, the trees, the air.”

“You don’t like talking to folks?”

“Not much. I’ve just said more to you right now than I’ve said to anyone in days.”

He grinned, thinking no one at the retirement home would believe this story when he told it tomorrow. A pretty woman, about his age, with hair as black as midnight, hiding in his loft. And even stranger, she said she didn’t like to talk but yet she still talked to him.

He liked the idea that they shared a love for walking the shadowy roads and also for not having much to say. He was usually the one folks skipped talking to. “You’re welcome here anytime. I’m Yancy Grey and I’m remodeling—or probably more accurately, rebuilding—the old Stanley house.”

“I know. I can see that.”

She had a soft, easy smile, but sad eyes. Old-soul eyes, he thought, like she’d seen far more sadness than most. He remembered a few people in prison like that and had watched sad eyes go dead, even though the person looking out of them was still breathing.

“You live around here?” Yancy knew he would have remembered if he’d seen her before. At first glance she looked more like a sixteen-year-old kid, but in the light, she seemed closer to her late twenties.

“I have to go.” She backed toward the door. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

He saw panic in those beautiful winter-blue eyes. He forced himself not to react. One more question and he knew she’d bolt.

“No bother.” He turned back to his work. “It was nice to have the company, even if I did think you were a rabbit.”

She whispered, more to herself than to him, “How would a rabbit get up there?”

He shrugged. “How would a pretty lady? Come back anytime, Rabbit. No questions, I promise.”

She took one more glance around the shop. “I like this place. It makes me feel safe. My father had a shop like this one.”

“You are safe,” he added, knowing without asking that her father must be dead. If he’d been alive, she wouldn’t be searching for a safe place. “Drop by anytime. Only, beware—I might put you to work.”

She ran her small hand over the wood he’d just sanded. “I’d like that. I grew up helping build things. Some folks said my daddy was an artist, but he always said he was just a carpenter.”

Without a word, he handed her the sander and went back to work. She stood on the other side of the workbench for a few minutes, then began to polish. For an hour, they simply worked across from each other. Her skill was evident, and he found himself wishing that a woman would touch him as lovingly as she touched the wood.

When he lifted the final board, she set her tools down and whispered, “I have to go. Thank you for this calm evening, Yancy.”

“You’re welcome, Rabbit. Come back any night.” He sensed what she might need to hear. “I could use the help, and I promise, no questions.”

She slipped through the doorway so silently he almost thought he’d imagined her.

Folding up his toolbox, Yancy turned out the light. He’d enjoyed her company, even though he knew nothing about the woman, not even her name. For all he knew, she could be crazy. Maybe she’d run away from prison or a husband who beat her. Or maybe she was a drifter, just waiting to steal everything she could get her hands on. If so, it wouldn’t be too hard; he’d never bought a lock for the barn.

But she had no car. She couldn’t have come far walking and she wouldn’t be able to carry off too much. She also had no wedding band, so no one was probably waiting up for her. He sensed that she was as alone as he was.

He reached for his coat and wasn’t surprised to find it missing from the latch.

As he started back toward his little room behind the activity hall of the Evening Shadows Retirement Community, he smiled, glad that Rabbit was warm at least. At her size, his coat would be huge, for he had to be over a foot taller than her and probably weighed double.

Maybe he should have more questions running through his head, but the only one he could think of right now was, could he call what they shared tonight a date?

Yancy swore to himself, thinking how pitiful he was to even consider the question. She was probably just lost, or maybe hiding from something, and definitely a thief—she’d stolen his coat. Not dating material even for someone as desperate as he was to just do something as ordinary as holding a woman’s hand.

But, considering all her possible shortcomings, she was still the best time he’d had with a woman in months.

CHAPTER FOUR

DEPUTY FIFTH WEATHERS rushed into the county offices on Main Street in Crossroads, Texas, as if he were still running offensive tackle for the Texas Longhorns.

Grinning, he realized it had been four years since he’d graduated. He was forty pounds leaner and long past talking about his football days, but now and then he yearned to run with the crowds roaring once more.

He headed straight for the sheriff’s office. All hell was about to hit and he hadn’t even had breakfast.

He’d overslept, again, and that was something Sheriff Brigman thought should be a hanging offense. Plus, even though he’d worked until long after midnight, the report due today still wasn’t done.

Pearly, the county’s receptionist and secretary, who sat just right of the main entrance, always jumped when Fifth walked past. She was a thin, little woman who’d probably blow away if he sneezed, and in the two years he’d been working with the sheriff, she’d never smiled at him.

The first six months he’d been in town she’d asked weekly when he planned to leave. Lately, the question hung silently between them like last year’s Christmas tinsel caught on a slow-moving fan, fluttering silently as it circled.

He nodded at her.

At six feet seven inches, Deputy Weathers wasn’t likely to sneak up on Pearly, but she frowned like she could see doomsday coming when his shadow blocked the sun.

“There you are,” she snapped. “The sheriff’s looking for you.”

Fifth moved closer to her massive desk. If he got any nearer than five feet, it always made Pearly start to fiddle with her shawl fringe like she planned to unknit the entire thing if he came within touching distance.

“You all right, Miss Pearly?” he said in a tone he hoped sounded more kind than threatening.

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “You just startled me. Someone should have put a brick on your head ten years ago, Deputy Weathers.”

Fifth gave up any attempt at conversation and headed toward the sheriff’s office. He couldn’t help it if his father had cursed him with height and his mother hadn’t been able to think of a name for her fifth son, so she’d just called him a number. Everyone had crazy families. His was simply supersized.

“Sheriff Brigman is not in there,” Pearly announced, about the time he reached the door. “He’s out on the Kirkland Ranch. Said to bring the missing-persons flyers for the past month and maps of the county. Wants your help as soon as possible, so I’d suggest you start backtracking all the way to your car.”

Fifth thought of asking her why she hadn’t let him know right away. She could have radioed the cruiser he drove, called his cell or dialed the bed-and-breakfast where he’d overslept this morning. But he knew what Pearly’s answer would be if he asked: she always said that she’d been about to. The woman’s about to list would last her into the hereafter.

He turned and walked back past her desk, trying not to notice how she leaned away like he’d accidentally knock her down on his way out.

A few minutes later he climbed into his cruiser, wondering why some people treated men over six-six like they were alien invaders. Men who were six-four were apparently fine, but grow a few more inches and you’re out of the normal zone. It also didn’t help that deputies in Texas wore boots and Stetsons. That added another three or four inches.

When he’d played football in college, his height hadn’t been a problem. But now anyone lower by a foot seemed to think he might just accidentally bop them on the head. He’d made it through the academy and had served two years as a deputy without accidentally killing anyone.

As he drove toward the Double K Ranch that had been in the Kirkland family over a hundred years, Fifth Weathers tried to relax. He’d been in Crossroads since Sheriff Brigman was shot and almost killed two years ago.

At first it had been just a job, a chance to step out of a big office and work with a sheriff everyone in Texas respected. But lately, it was more than that. He was starting to care about the people. He’d matured from a green rookie looking for excitement to a seasoned officer who hoped never to have to pull his weapon again.

That is, if shooting a snake counted as a first time.

For the most part, the folks in the county were good, honest citizens who loved to tease him once they figured out he was on the shy side. The grocer offered to stack his daughters if Fifth would take both of them out. The Franklin sisters, who ran the bed-and-breakfast, were always trying to match him up with one of their relatives because they claimed the family tree could use the height. And from what he’d seen, Franklins tended to grow out instead of up.

Fifth wouldn’t have minded having a date. It had been a while. But even in college, when girls flocked around athletes, he hadn’t gone out much. He’d always felt awkward and never knew the right thing to say.

He blamed his mother for his awkwardness around women. You’d think with a dozen pregnancies she could have popped out one girl so her sons could learn to relate.

When he turned onto Kirkland land, Fifth put his problems aside and was all business. If the sheriff was here, there must be something wrong. Staten Kirkland was a good man who ran his ranch like a small kingdom. He wouldn’t be calling the law in on something minor.

Dan Brigman was on the porch talking to the rancher. All signs that Brigman had taken four bullets in an ambush were gone: the sheriff looked fit and strong; his hair had grayed to the color of steel, and his eyes always seemed to look right into the heart of folks. Fifth could think of no better goal than to model his career after this legend of a man.

“About time you arrived,” Dan said with a hint of a smile that told Fifth he wasn’t in any serious trouble this time.

“Sorry, sir. I overslept.” Fifth climbed the steps and offered his hand to Kirkland.

Dan nodded once. “I thought you might when I passed the office around midnight and saw the lights still on.”

“You’re working the kid too hard,” Kirkland said as he shook Fifth’s hand. “Come on inside, Deputy. We’ve got coffee and cinnamon rolls waiting. I need to show Dan the map in my office before we start planning.”

“Thanks,” Fifth answered politely, grateful that he didn’t have to admit that right now he was far more interested in the rolls and coffee than looking at any map. Caffeine and sugar should wake him up.

Fifth followed the two men through the massive double doors of the Kirkland headquarters as they talked about the weather. The sound of their boots thumping across the hardwood floor blended with the jingle of spurs Kirkland wore.

Fifth had been at the headquarters a few times before. A New Year’s party. A meeting of the new city planning committee. He liked the big old home, and it was one of the few places he didn’t have to watch his head. The Kirklands were tall and built their house to accommodate.

The main room was a forty-foot-long living area built with mahogany and leather. A dining area to the left had a table that would seat thirty. Kirkland’s huge office opened through double doors on the right, and a modern country kitchen was in the back.

The house reminded him of a remade set from the movie Giant. Pure Texas. Western, all the way.

Only it didn’t seem like a house that people lived in. It was the headquarters, set up for work and meetings. Fifth had heard that the family lived in a smaller place a few hundred yards away, which made sense. Kirkland had two toddlers, and no one would want to have to chase them all over this amount of square footage.

Fifth had just begun to feel his muscles relaxing when he turned the corner off the main room and saw Kirkland’s wife, Quinn, sitting at the kitchen table, talking to a woman about his age.

The stranger had short, reddish-brown hair, naturally curly, and blue eyes; she was dressed in a leather jacket and tan pants with boots laced almost to her knees. For a second he thought she looked like Amelia Earhart. Then he added one more fact as she turned directly to him and glared.

One look at him and, for some reason, the woman seemed to become angry as hell.

For a second, Fifth fought the urge to step back, maybe all the way to the door. Maybe farther. He might not have a lot of experience with women, but he could see rage flashing in her icy-blues like white-hot lightning. Take cover or run seemed to be the safest options.

The anger didn’t fit until he watched her slowly stand. He added one last statistic. Over six feet tall. The possibility they’d both stepped into a match-up trap occurred to him, just as it probably had to her.

Quinn just grinned, but Kirkland made the introductions. “Fifth, I’d like you to meet my wife’s niece, Madison O’Grady.” Now Kirkland was grinning, obviously unaware that his kin was firing a look that might kill the only deputy for miles around. “We asked her to come in this morning. Thought you two might like to get acquainted.”

“Welcome, Miss O’Grady.” Fifth removed his hat and offered his hand, hoping she didn’t bite it off.

The sheriff slapped his deputy on the shoulder. “So...ah...enjoy your coffee and rolls, Deputy. We’ll be back before you finish.” At least Brigman had the sense not to grin.

Quinn, Staten and the sheriff vanished, leaving him alone with the angry woman. The instinct to run was so strong he couldn’t get his tongue untied enough to speak.

Without asking if he wanted one, she poured him a cup of coffee and slid it across the table, not seeming to notice, or care, that boiling liquid spilled out.

He sat down. He’d had women look at him with total disinterest, or sometimes even with fear because of his size, but he’d never been the kind of guy to bring out hate—or passion, for that matter—in anyone. In fact, he’d always kind of thought that women his age viewed him as a friend more than anything else. He guessed he’d be like his two older brothers where women were concerned. He’d marry a woman who was a friend and settle into an easy kind of partnership.

Fifth drew the plate of rolls close before she decided to shove them over. Maybe if he ignored her she’d calm down. He downed the first roll in two bites. It smelled good, but he swallowed so fast he didn’t bother to taste it.

The second of Quinn’s famous cinnamon rolls was almost to his mouth when Madison O’Grady spoke.

“Well,” she snapped as she paced, “where do you want to do it? Here on the table? The couch is long enough but it might not be wide enough for us, or there are several bedrooms upstairs. Pick one.”

Fifth stared at the roll, figuring she probably wasn’t talking about eating. “Do what?” he said quietly.

“Have sex, of course. We were obviously brought here to meet. My whole family has been trying to match me up like the expiration date on me is about to run out. Last month it was a six-five trucker who stopped at the café. They thought I should drop everything and come meet him. Thank goodness he turned out to be married or I’d be on an eighteen-wheeler to Des Moines, Iowa, right now.”

Fifth must have still looked confused because she added, “Why waste time talking or dating or getting married? Let’s just do it right here, right now. We’re obviously meant for one another. We’re both over six feet.”

Fifth didn’t know what to do. She may have been angry, but damned if she wasn’t the sexiest woman he’d ever encountered. He must be a masochist.

He’d always been hesitant to have any one-night stands because he feared he might hurt a small woman. Now he wasn’t sure Madison wouldn’t hurt him.

“Madison!” Kirkland yelled from his office. “You fully gassed and ready?”

She didn’t take her eyes off Fifth. “I can be in the air in five.”

“Good.” The sheriff appeared in the office doorway. “Fifth, inhale another bite and follow Madison. I want you two gone as fast as possible.”

Fifth caught the surprise in her eyes a moment before she grabbed a satchel and ran for the back door.

He was right behind her. He had no trouble matching her long strides as she stormed toward a helicopter parked on the other side of Kirkland’s barn. “You’re the pilot.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, and you must be the passenger I came all the way from Wichita Falls to pick up.” She glanced over at him. “You’re the expert on rough terrain they were talking about. I thought—I thought...”

“I think I know what you thought.” He grinned. “You’re not the only one who gets set up with strangers because of their height.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as she opened the passenger door.

“Forget it. How about we start over?” Fifth dropped his hat in the cargo bag and put on headphones. “You’re the pilot and I’m the expert.” He watched her circle the chopper and climb into the pilot’s seat before adding, “Only, I hope you’re a better pilot than I am an expert. I’ve been studying up for months, but I’ve had no field experience.”

“Climb in,” she shouted as she started the helicopter. “You’re about to have the ride of your life.”

Fifth folded into the passenger seat, bumping her shoulder as he buckled himself in. “So, I guess sex on the kitchen table is off the agenda?”

She laughed, then winked at him. “Not necessarily.”

Fifth froze. Now he was shocked, but by the time his brain cells fired, it was too late to run. They were already in the air.

CHAPTER FIVE

Peace

TORI WALKED THE rocky ground behind Parker’s house near Crossroads. The land didn’t look good for much as far as farming. One field near the road was plowed, but the rest seemed like it had always grown wild. Whoever built this house had wanted peace, she decided. The front porch faced the morning sun. Trees had been planted in a circle out back years ago and now offered a small meadow of shade.

She already loved it here. Her mind had settled, and she could feel herself growing stronger. When—or if—her stepfather found her, she wouldn’t be the same person as she had been two weeks ago when she vanished.

She was twenty-four, and it was time she took control of her own life. She should have done it years ago, but her mother kept saying that her new husband, Tori’s stepfather, knew best. He was a businessman, and he would run everything so that all Tori would have to do was paint. When Tori had protested again, at nineteen, her mother had reminded her of how the mixing of business and art had driven Tori’s father mad. He’d loved being the carpenter, working with his hands, but when his carvings began to sell for thousands, he lost the simple joy in creating.

Tori had backed off, letting her mother win, again. And again. And again. Letting her mother and stepfather handle the business side of her career so she could paint. Only lately she’d felt like a factory, always pushed to produce.

She twirled in the meadow. “Freedom,” she yelled, then laughed.

Maybe she’d paint today. Maybe she’d sleep in the sun. Maybe she’d go visit the man at the edge of town who called her Rabbit.

But, no matter what, she’d do what she wanted to do. She’d live her own life.

CHAPTER SIX

Dallas in cadet-gray rain

PARKER LOVED THE gallery after dark. The lights of a rainy Dallas surrounded her as they glowed through the forty-foot wall of glass that framed the building. Paintings seemed to float between the city and the rich, earthy reds of Saltillo tiles.

Somehow the art seemed to come alive as shadows bordered each creation’s elegant grace. Her gallery was a still, unpolluted kind of paradise that always made Parker feel safe and comfortable.

The possibility of dying couldn’t reach her here. She could push the prospect from her mind and just breathe.

She took one last walk through her world. She almost had everything ready. Her staff believed she had a scouting trip in the planning stages but she was, for the first time in her life, running away to have an adventure. To paint. To live. To help a friend.

For years, she’d been saying she’d take off when everything slowed down. She’d go to Crossroads, Texas, where she’d bought a farmhouse almost ten years ago. Her someday dream had always been to paint. She’d been driving from Dallas to Albuquerque one summer on the back roads and seen a For Sale sign hooked to a barbed-wire fence in the middle of nowhere.

On a whim she’d turned off a road that was posted as private. The land, if it had ever been tamed, had gone back to nature. One edge dipped down into a canyon with rich earth shades that took her breath away. The other direction spread over rolling prairie spotted with wildflowers and clusters of trees surrounding small ponds. She remembered seeing the little two-story farmhouse peeking out from behind a huge oak planted at the bend in the lane leading up to the place.

The old house was perfect. Small, with an unfinished attic that could serve as a studio. High ceilings with good light streaming in. Tall windows in the back with a canyon view. Heaven at the end of a private road. A painter’s hideaway. The rancher next door owned the small chunk of land and had said he needed money to pay taxes. She’d made an offer and he didn’t even bother to counter. Within hours she’d bought the place, hired a couple to clean once a month and headed back to the city.

Her someday place would be waiting for her.

A few years later, the rancher offered to lease the small field that bordered his place for a percentage of the profits. She said she would if he’d use the money to keep up her house and the road they shared. “Whatever you pay out, spend it on repairs and paint,” she’d said, knowing she had little time to even think about the farm. She was almost thirty and had had a business to build.

“Will do, lady,” he’d said.

A month later he’d called and asked what color she wanted the outside painted.

“The color of the Texas sky in summer. And, cowboy—” she’d forgotten his name by then “—when you have enough in my balance to paint the inside, don’t bother to call me—just paint each room the color of a different flower that grows on my land.”

“Will do,” he’d said again and had hung up without saying goodbye.

But Parker knew the colors didn’t really matter. She’d probably go the rest of her life seeing the place only in her mind. It’d be blue, like the sky. One room would be the yellow of sunflowers, another the violet of morning glories or the scarlet in Indian paintbrush.

The cowboy never called again, and the house slowly became more of an imaginary place in Parker’s thoughts than a reality.

Until now. Maybe, with Tori visiting, Parker might actually start creating her own work. She smiled. With her luck, the cranky cowboy would be color-blind and she’d have to repaint the whole house before she even set up a canvas.

The buzzer on the gallery’s main door pulled her from her thoughts. Parker moved close enough to hear the security guard, but stayed in the shadows.

“I’ll need IDs,” she heard the guard yell through the glass. “Then I’ll see if Miss Lacey is available.”

Two men in suits stepped forward and slapped what looked like very official badges on the glass.

After talking to someone on the phone for a minute, the guard nodded at the suits, but didn’t open the door.

Parker moved farther into the shadows as he hurried toward her.

“Miss Lacey, two FBI agents want to talk to you. I can tell them you’ve already gone if you like.”

“No. I’ll talk to them. Bring them to my office.” Parker smiled; she’d been expecting this. Tori had been gone for over a week, so it was about time they got around to asking questions. And if she wasn’t willing to answer them, she might raise their suspicion. Parker worked with easily a hundred artists, and Victoria Vilanie was only one. There was no reason to believe Parker had anything to do with or knew anything about her disappearance. But she had a feeling it was the press that really wanted answers.

The guard nodded and turned to the door.

She watched the two men moving toward her. One was taller, older. The other was beefy, like he’d overdone the workouts. Neither man even glanced at the art on either side of them.

Ten minutes later, she’d answered all their standard questions. Yes, she’d met Victoria Vilanie in person once at a conference in LA, and she believed they might have been on the same plane back to Dallas. She got off then, but seemed to remember Victoria staying on the flight heading to Detroit. Yes, she knew how talented the woman was. No, she didn’t know if Tori was unstable. No, they were not friends. No, she didn’t know if the artist took drugs. Yes, she did keep Victoria’s number on file.

She passed them the form that she asked all her artists to fill out. The younger man looked over it and handed the paper back. Obviously, she had nothing that they didn’t already have in their records.

“Why’d you write ‘Tori’ on the top corner?” the older one asked.

“She asked me to call her that,” Parker answered.

“Are you aware that she had death threats before the LA showing? Her parents are very worried that some harm may have come to her.”

“Yes. I read about it in the paper. If I remember the story, a man had seen her picture and started writing her through the galleries.”

“Right.” The agent looked bored. “You ever get any of those letters, Miss Lacey?”

“No.” Parker thought of adding that no gallery that she knew of had got a letter. She suspected the story might have been a lie Tori’s stepfather told or a publicity stunt.

As she walked them to the door, she asked, “What’s the big deal? Doesn’t a woman have the right to take a vacation? Maybe she’s lost in her work. Artists tend to do that.” She knew it was more than that, but Tori hadn’t gone into much detail that night at the airport when they’d huddled together in a corner of the crowded terminal and planned her disappearance. She’d just said she wanted to run away from a life she hated, and that she had no one to turn to but Parker.

At first it had seemed like a game. Planning each step. Even seeing if they could buy untraceable phones. But as they’d boarded their flight, Tori had smiled, as though part of her panic had vanished. Her life was like a rocket speeding out of control, and Parker had offered her an escape hatch.

Now the game felt real, and Parker had never felt so alive.

The taller agent looked at her with cold, black eyes. “The press believes Victoria Vilanie to be one of the finest artists in the world. She may have been kidnapped. In fact, according to the press, the stepfather is sure of it.”

“Or,” Parker tried again, “still, she might just be on vacation. Maybe she doesn’t like all the attention. Maybe she’s shy.” The minute the words were out, Parker knew she’d said too much.

The older agent suddenly seemed to wake up. He stared at her as if he’d just heard something that would put her on the watch list.

The beefy guy shook his head. He seemed more interested in arguing than picking up clues. “The press says the public has a right to know, and besides, where would she go? She’s been a recluse for years.”

“I can’t think of anywhere, but after all, I don’t really know Tori.”

The agent looked at Parker as if he thought she might be protesting too much. His question came out in a whisper. “What do you know, Miss Lacey?”

Parker fought to keep calm. “Nothing. I just know artists, and most don’t like to be in public. They are very private people. The creation of a work of art comes from deep inside and has to have a great deal of silence and alone time to bloom.”

They exchanged a look during her spontaneous lecture.

“If you hear...”

“I’ll call,” she interrupted, suddenly in a great hurry to be rid of them. She’d read once in a mystery that the guilty always talk too much, and what had she just done but rattle on.

As they walked to the door she dropped farther behind, guessing there would be no goodbyes at the door. Neither man looked at the walls that were filled with beautiful works. Their lives seemed to have no room for color, and that frightened her far more than the badge or gun they carried.

The moment the agents left, Parker rushed back to her office and closed her door. She used the phone she’d bought a week ago when she’d been with Tori at the airport.

Tori picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, Parker,” she said. “When you getting here? You wouldn’t believe the light in this open land.”

“I’m not coming for a while. I have to make sure I’m not followed. Stay safe, Tori. Lies seem to be circling and I fear your stepfather is encouraging them. Somehow he’s even got the FBI involved.”

Tori was quiet for a moment, then whispered, “You understand why I had to leave.”

“I do. After having just been visited by the FBI, I have no doubt. No wonder you were so upset. You must have had very little privacy since your paintings became so popular. I’m going to do all I can to help. I’ll call again when I’m on my way.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Crossroads

YANCY HUNG HIS new coat on the workshop latch and moved into his barn workshop. He didn’t even look up at the loft. The woman he’d called Rabbit wouldn’t be up there. She hadn’t been for three days.

He knew because he came to check every night. He’d even walked over a few days on his lunch break, hoping she might have dropped by. No sign of her or of his coat.

He was beginning to believe she was only a figment of his imagination. Maybe wishing for someone his age to talk to had conjured her up. A man gets used to the loneliness after a while, but that doesn’t mean hope vanishes.

What were the chances that a woman he’d never seen around town was hanging out in his workshop? She’d been pretty, real pretty, and he would have noticed a girl with beautiful blue eyes and dark, waist-length hair. He volunteered at half the things in town. He went to all the town-hall meetings and was always running to the grocery or the hardware store. He would have seen her somewhere.

Smiling, he remembered how her thick midnight braid had brushed her hips when she’d climbed down the ladder. If he was just making her up, at least he’d done a good job. Even her smile made him grin now, three days later.

“You up there, Rabbit?” he muttered to the silent barn.

A board above him creaked, making him jump.

“I’ve been waiting,” she answered with a laugh. “I had to make sure you were alone.”

Startled, he looked up and saw her lean over the edge of the loft. She was dressed, as before, in jeans and a flannel shirt, with his coat folded over her arm. Little Rabbit was so petite folks might mistake her for a teenage boy if they didn’t see her long hair braided down her back and the gentle rounding of her chest that showed even in the baggy shirt.

Yancy tried to clear his thoughts. She was back.

“Well, come on down, Rabbit. We’ve got work to do.” The rule came back to him. No questions. “I thought I might have dreamed you up, but dreams don’t usually steal coats.”

She swung a leg onto the ladder. “I’m sorry about that. I brought it back. But I’ll have to borrow it again to wear home.”

He watched her as her left foot hit the rung of the ladder and slipped.

An instant later she was flying down toward him, tumbling out of control like a bird with a broken wing.

Taking one step, he caught her in midflight. This dream he’d been thinking about felt very solid in his arms.

Without holding her too tight, he lowered her feet to the ground. She was real. Her heart pounded against his chest for a moment before he let her go.

“Thanks,” she managed as she backed away. “I’ve always been clumsy.”

“You didn’t look clumsy,” he managed to say as he fought the urge to reach for her. “You looked like you were flying.”

She shoved a hand in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a bag. “I brought you cookies, but it appears they’re only crumbs now.”

He accepted her gift. “I love cookie crumbs. I’ll share them when we take our coffee break, if you can stay awhile?”

“I can stay. The other night, when I worked here, I walked home and slept like a baby. So, what have we got to do tonight? I feel like a cobbler’s elf.”

“I’m putting together the hearth for the fireplace. I could really use your help.” He pulled a tarp away from a long piece of wood he’d carved months ago. “It’s a two-man job.”

Her face lit up when she grinned. “One man, one rabbit, you mean.”

“That’ll have to do.” It crossed his mind that the lady might be a little nuts to show up at night in a stranger’s barn, but right about now in his life, a bubble off normal didn’t sound like too bad a place to be. He liked watching her work. She had skills he’d probably never develop. Plain, old, ordinary wood became art in her hands.

As the night aged, he began to feel like he was half-drunk. She’d come back. The work seemed to go more than twice as fast with her help. When he made a mistake, alone he would have sworn, but together they laughed.

It was funny, he thought as he watched her; deep inside, he felt like he’d known her all his life. He’d read once about an old Greek myth that claimed humans were once twice as tall. When the gods decided to make males and females different, they cut all the humans in half. From that day on, people walked around searching for their other half.

An easy way of just being together drifted between them. They didn’t need to ask questions or carry on small talk. Like they’d always been a part of each other’s lives. Or like they were each other’s missing half. Impossible, he thought. Men like him were loners, born to have no one care enough to last a lifetime.

She helped him carry the hearth through the darkness between the barn and the house. When he clicked on the construction lights in the old house, she squealed with pure joy.

Turning loose her side of the hearth, she circled the room. “Even in the shadows I can see the beauty of this place.” The construction lamps made spotlights on the floor of the huge open room, and she danced in and out of their beams like a ballerina on stage.

Yancy didn’t notice the beauty of the room he’d so carefully created. He was too busy watching her. “Take your time looking around. I’ll just stand here holding this hunk of wood myself,” he teased.

Her laughter filled the empty space. She ran back and helped him carry the hearth to where the bones of a fireplace waited to be dressed.

As he spread his arms wide to hold the frame in place, she moved between him and the hearth, measuring, taping everything in place. By the time she was satisfied all was level and balanced, he was no longer thinking, period. When she brushed against him, he seemed to be the only one who noticed they’d touched. She smelled so good. Like peaches and freshly washed linens. He could do nothing but stand perfectly still, holding the hearth in place and breathing in the nearness of her.

When she finally left to run back to the barn for the toolbox, he forced himself to relax and think of what they were doing, not what he would have liked to do. If he’d thought she would have welcomed an advance, he might have dropped the hearth and grabbed her. After all, he could rebuild the hearth, but he might never get another chance to hold her.

Only she might not welcome his touch. He wasn’t the kind of man who knew how to come on strong with a woman. He guessed his shy Rabbit wasn’t much more knowledgeable when it came to men and women than he was. She did love helping, though. A kind heart was rare in the world.

When she returned, she was all business, but the easy nearness, the light touches continued. He told himself she wasn’t noticing what she was doing, but he was memorizing every brush her body made against his, every time her hand touched his shoulder, and loving the way she leaned near. If she was launching a gentle attack, maybe he should tell her that he’d gladly surrender.

An hour later, they both stood back and admired their work. The hearth was beautiful. A work of art, thanks to her cuts and finishing.

“Not bad,” Yancy said. “We could roast marshmallows in a fire there.”

She nodded. “If we had the wood for a fire, a few matches, some chairs to sit in and some marshmallows.”

“Just details,” he admitted, looking around. “I’m almost finished with the downstairs and I have no idea about furniture.”

“You could make it.”

He liked that idea. “I wouldn’t need much. I got the bar to eat on. All I’d need is a stool and maybe a rocker by the fire.”

She moved to the bar and leaned against it. “What about your guests? Where would rabbits sit?”

Without thinking, he circled her waist and lifted her up. “You could sit on the bar.”

A moment later he realized what he’d done. He might have let her touch him, but this time he’d touched her. No, he’d handled her. Like she was a kid or a close friend. He didn’t even know her name. He had no right. He didn’t know much but one rule had always been clear. A woman could touch a man, but a man never handled a woman without an indication of the woman’s consent.

Yancy stepped back and straightened. His eyes staring down at the floor like he’d done in prison when he was little more than a kid lost in a world of rules and punishment. He’d spent every day since he’d been out trying to act normal, trying to do what was right, but deep down he knew part of him would always be an ex-con.

The silence of the empty room seemed to throb with each heartbeat.

They’d had a great night working together, talking, laughing. But a woman who wouldn’t tell him her name wasn’t likely to welcome his hands on her. When he’d caught her as she fell from the loft, he’d felt her stiffen even as he lowered her to her feet. She’d been polite. She’d thanked him for saving her, but she’d moved away.

“Yancy?” Her voice echoed in the empty room.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he forced himself to look up. “I didn’t mean to...”

Her gray-blue eyes were smiling. “It’s okay, Yancy. You didn’t hurt me.” She crossed her legs and put her elbows on her knees. “The bar may be a little high but the view is great up here. I can almost see your handmade furniture. Rockers by the fire. A writing table by the window. Bookshelves climbing along the wall to match the stair steps over there. If you build me a stool, make it a few inches higher than yours so we’ll look directly at each other. I get tired of always looking up at people.”

He leaned his head to the side, studying her as if she were an animal he’d never encountered. “You’re not mad at me?”

“Why?” She watched him.

“I put my hands on you, Rabbit.”

“You did that when you caught me. If you hadn’t I’d have probably broken a few bones.” When he just kept staring, she added, “I’ve made up my mind that you are a good man, Yancy Grey. I’ve not always been a good judge of men, but I’m learning. I am not afraid of you. I believe you won’t hurt me.”

“I wouldn’t,” he managed to say, knowing she had no idea what a gift she was giving him with her trust. “But most folks don’t warm up to me very fast after they find out I’ve been in prison. I’ve done hard time, Rabbit, and they say that changes a man forever.”

She looked more interested than afraid. “Want to talk about it?”

He’d been asked before and always said no, but somehow this time he thought it might be all right. He jumped up to sit on the bar a foot away from her and began.

He told her of how he’d been caught stealing when he was nineteen and had turned twenty in prison.

She listened as he remembered details he’d spent years trying to forget. He had to be honest with her. She trusted him.

“The smells in the whole place made me half-sick most of the time. I’d go out in the yard, even on the coldest days, just to be able to breathe. Once, it was snowing and I was the only one to step outside. I just stood, looking up at the snow, and listened to the rare sound of silence while I breathed in the smell of nothing but winter.”

She covered his hand with hers without saying a word.

“I used to lie awake in my tiny cell listening to the sounds around me, wishing I were somewhere, anywhere else. Sometimes I’d dream of getting out and just living a normal life, but prison is still there in the back of my mind. No matter how hard I breathe out, there’s still a little bit of the smell left in my lungs.”

Her stormy-day blue eyes were full of compassion.

“It’s been seven years and I still feel the pressure to do everything right. Like I have to watch myself every minute. If I do one thing wrong I’ll somehow wake up back in prison with all the bad smells and the sound of men crying and cussing. If I say the wrong thing. If I don’t tell people the truth about where I’ve been, then I’m hiding. If I do, I’m afraid of how they’ll react.”

Lacing his fingers in her small hand, he added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you disappeared, Little Rabbit. If you do, I should tell you that tonight was just about the best of my life. Even if I never see you again, I don’t think I’ll ever forget working beside you. It was nice, real nice.”

He’d had this routine before with women he’d met. They acted like it didn’t matter that he’d served time, but if he called for a second date, they were always busy. He expected it. He hadn’t blamed them. He wouldn’t blame her. She’d probably just disappear as if she’d never been there and he’d have no idea how to even look for her.

She pulled her hand away and he let her go without protest. “Help me down, Yancy. It’s late.”

He nodded and jumped off the bar. Carefully, he circled her waist and lifted her down. She didn’t meet his eyes as she looked around the room.

“What are you building next?” she asked, changing the subject.

“The banister.” He answered in a dull voice, knowing this must be her way of saying goodbye. “I thought I’d make the rails out of the same oak that I used on the hearth, then have the top done in wrought iron to make it more modern.”

She moved into the shadows where the stairs climbed the north wall. He heard her feet take the first few steps. “I can see it. It’ll add warmth to the room and last forever.”

“I’m thinking my lifetime will be enough. I don’t have any relatives to pass this place along to.” He walked to her and glanced up into the darkness, where no lights warmed the second floor.

She came down one step so that they were at eye level. “I have to go,” she whispered—as if there were anyone to hear but him. “Start the rails. I’ll be back to help shape and stain them.”

Studying her, he wondered if she were lying. “Fine,” he managed, wishing he had the nerve to ask her just one question before she disappeared.

He waited for her to come down the last step.

She didn’t move. The house was pure, snowflake silent.

“I didn’t mind you touching me.” She moved one step closer. “Would you mind if I got a little closer to say good-night?”

Before he could answer, her lips touched his. When he didn’t move, she leaned against him and put her hands on each side of his face. “Kiss me back, Yancy,” she whispered against his mouth. “Please, kiss me back.”

Something deep inside Yancy broke. Maybe it was reason. Maybe it was the door to his own private prison.

He pulled her against him and kissed her full on, like he’d always wanted to kiss a girl.

After a few moments, he felt her fingers gently brushing against the sides of his face, as if she were calming him down. When he let her go, he realized he’d been holding her so tightly she probably couldn’t breathe.

He’d kissed her too hard. Too long for a first kiss.

His hands dropped to his sides, but she didn’t pull away. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she ran. She had to think he was some kind of wild animal. It would probably be no surprise to her that he’d had very few girlfriends.

But she stayed so near he could feel her breath as she whispered, “Easy now, Yancy. Let’s do it again. I’m not going away. You don’t have to hold on so tight. I’m right here in front of you, wanting very much to kiss you. Do you think we can try again?”

He moved his hands gently up her body and held her as tenderly as he knew how as she kissed him a second time.

This woman with all her secrets and closed doors kissed him with an openness unlike anyone had ever kissed him. She wasn’t just going through the motions, waiting for what happened next, but there was tenderness, caring, as if she’d held all her passion in check for so long that she had to explode.

This time he was the one who couldn’t breathe.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MADISON O’GRADY WAS one of the best pilots Fifth Weathers had ever seen. It took him a minute to get used to the cramped space and the vibration of the chopper, but the view was beautiful, both the land outside and the woman so close she was almost touching him.

They flew low across Kirkland land, following the canyon and riverbeds as if running with the wild horses. The landscape took his breath away, and when he glanced at her, Madison smiled as if she understood how he felt.

Finally, he calmed enough to explain how a cowhand had reported seeing a car far down in a gully where not even a truck could go. The canyon was too steep for the cowhand to get his horse close to the car, so he’d called in to the sheriff’s office.

“We might not have checked out an old car,” Fifth added, “but for the last week we’ve been getting info that a woman is missing. We don’t have details, but if she was passing through this area and was kidnapped, whoever took her might have wanted to make the vehicle disappear.”

Madison looked down at the treeless, rolling land. “That wouldn’t be easy to do in this country. An abandoned car would be easy to spot.”

“Right,” he said. “Short of digging a hole and burying it, the best way is to sink it in water. Only, if a flash rain comes, it’ll swell the gullies and drag the car along in a sudden flood. A few hours later, it could be miles from where it was dumped and above water or damming up a creek.”

Much as he hated to brag, Fifth did feel like an expert on the subject. “The one animal, besides man, that does the most to change the lay of the land is a beaver. One den, built on a stream, can end up changing water flow for miles. So, even if it’s simply an abandoned old car, someone has to deal with it.”

“So we’re looking for beavers?” She made a face.

“No.” He laughed. “We’re looking for a car that might have done the beaver’s job. Someone reported seeing our missing person driving a red Chev. If we find it and there is a body in it, that’s where the law comes in. Of course, there have been other apparent sightings of this missing lady. One report said she might have taken a bus from Oklahoma City. Another claimed to have seen a hitchhiker near Dallas who fit her description. Right now we have no idea which ones are true. All I know is she’s missing and someone is in a real hurry to find her.”

They flew for almost an hour, with Fifth marking off their route as they went. Now was a good time to note the flow of streams for future reference. The sheriff liked to walk the land, but Fifth preferred using a computer when he could. Madison was saving him several days of work. Some of the terrain could be reached only on horseback, and that would have taken a week.

No old car appeared. Maybe it went back underwater. Maybe the guy who spotted it was wrong on his location. But, thanks to his mapping, the flight hadn’t been a waste of time.

When they finally landed and she cut the engine, he leaned back and said, “Thanks. I can’t wait to get all this data into the computer. We might not have found the SUV, but I have a much better sense of the flow of the streams around these parts.”

She grinned. “You are welcome, Deputy Weathers.”

He collected his notes. She picked up her satchel. They walked back to the headquarters in matching strides.

“I’d like to offer to buy you lunch, but I’m afraid you’d think I meant it as a date.” Fifth fought the urge to step out of range as he asked.

“I’m starving. I might go if we both understand it’s only a thank-you lunch.” She pointed to where the sheriff’s cruiser had been parked. It was missing, along with Staten’s huge black Dodge. “Looks like everyone left us.”

“There is a big meeting in town. Didn’t they tell you? We may have wind turbines coming in across this part of Texas. Some say it’ll double the size of the town. If I know the people of Crossroads, they’ll talk it to death before deciding.”

She nodded. “Quinn mentioned it. I’m staying over for a few days, so she said we’ll have lots of time to catch up. I grew up around here, but my parents moved to Granbury when I started college.”

Opening the car door, he added to the offer. “If you have lunch, I promise to bring you back to Kirkland’s place. I’m guessing you don’t have a car and you won’t want to wait in town for the meeting to end.”

Madison hesitated. “You’re right, but I don’t know about a lunch date. Small town. Crowd in town, half of which will know me. All probably know you. They’ll have us engaged before we order dessert.”

“Well, then, we might as well do it right here. How about in the back of my cruiser or on the grass? We could skip lunch or dating or marriage. Let’s just...”

“Stop it. I get the point.”

He laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re shy?”

“No, I just don’t like crowds.”

He understood. They would stick out by about a head. “I know just the place that will be perfect for lunch, or whatever you have in mind. Trust me.”

She looked like she was about to say “not a chance,” but instead she folded into his cruiser without a word.

He lifted a brow. That was easy.

The conversation was stilted all the way back to town. When he pulled through the Dairy Queen and ordered, she relaxed a little. Five minutes later, when he parked in the empty museum parking lot, she smiled.

“I remember this place. There’s a seating area overlooking the canyon.”

“Our table is waiting. No crowds. Only the wind and ants.”

She laughed as he handed her two root-beer floats while he got the burgers and they headed toward the picnic area.

Within a few minutes, they were talking like old friends. She told him stories of being in the air force after college, and he told her about wild car chases and arrests that he’d only heard about.

They figured out that they graduated from high school the same year, but she seemed to have had hundreds more adventures than he had. She’d traveled the world and been in combat once when she’d flown a rescue mission. He’d traveled Texas and had pulled his service weapon once in two years.

Both shared stories of being the tallest in every class picture and the problems they both had dating.

In the end, when he drove her back to the Kirkland Ranch, Fifth felt like he’d made a friend.

Maybe they’d work together again sometime. Maybe she’d call him the next time she visited her relatives, but he saw no sparks between them when she said goodbye.

As always, he was in the friend category.

The only problem was, this time he wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

CHAPTER NINE

Crossroads

RABBIT DIDN’T COME back for two nights, but Yancy went to his barn and worked late. He’d planned the stairs to be his next project, but found himself looking for excuses not to work on it. Finally, on the third night, as he cut the wood for the rails for the staircase, his mind drifted repeatedly to how she’d felt in his arms.

She was small, but after holding her, he had no doubt that she was a woman fully developed. He liked the way she felt and the way she smelled, but most of all, he liked the way she wasn’t afraid of him. She trusted him. Maybe not totally, but enough to build hope on.

He worked. He’d wait.

When he heard the creak of the door, he dropped his tools and turned toward the sound. She blew in with the first raindrops from a midnight storm.

She met his eyes briefly, and then she was running toward him as if she had missed him as dearly as he’d missed her.

He opened his arms and caught her as she jumped. For a while he just held her, feeling her body shake slightly. At first he thought it might be from the cold, but then he realized she was crying.

Backing up a few feet, Yancy leaned against a sawhorse so he wouldn’t seem so tall. Her face moved between his throat and shoulder and he felt her tears as they soaked through his shirt.

His shy little rabbit was hurting. He patted her back lightly, wishing he could take her sadness away.

A hundred questions came to mind, but he remembered their one rule. He’d have to wait for answers. All that mattered now was that she was safe here in his arms.

He kissed the top of her head and moved his hands comfortingly across her back.

She snuggled against him and cried softly as though her gentle heart was breaking.

“Are you hurt?” he finally whispered.

Shaking her head, she pulled away enough to look at him. “Promise me you’ll never tell anyone about me. No matter what happens, no one must ever know I’m here. I’ve vanished, you see, and I’m not ready to go back. For the first time ever, I’m living my own life. If this time ended, I’m not sure I could bear it.”

“I promise.” Whom would he tell? Yancy thought. No one would even know to ask. Besides, he’d sound nuts telling anyone he’d spent all these nights woodworking with a woman he called Rabbit but hadn’t asked who she was or where she came from. “I’ll keep your secret, if it will keep you safe.” He pushed a tear off her cheek. “I’d do anything to help you.”

She leaned against him and finally stopped crying. “Thanks,” she whispered as she kissed his lips feather light.

He returned the kiss. Just a touch, not an advance. Her lip trembled slightly, but she didn’t move away.

He held her, loving the nearness of her, wanting to help, needing to know what was wrong, but afraid to ask more. For now, it was enough that she was safe and unhurt. It didn’t matter what she was running from—only that she was running to him.

He brushed what felt like dried paint from her temple. “You been working in someone else’s workshop, Rabbit?”

“No. I was just playing around with oils today. I tried to mix the colors to match the sky at dawn, but I couldn’t get it right.”

“So, you paint.” He held his breath, fearing she’d think his statement was a question.

“Not much,” she answered. “Not lately.”

“Maybe I’ll give you a chance to do it again.” He smiled at her. “I found an old rocking chair at a yard sale. It needs work, but I could repair the broken pieces of wood and you could paint it red.”

She nodded. “I’d like that. I’ve always wanted to paint a rocker.” She fought down a giggle but he saw her smile.

The sound of a car passing on the road fifty yards away made her jump, but she didn’t leave his arms. When they heard the car pull off the road and head toward them, Yancy held her tighter. He could hear rocks crunching and winter-dead weeds snapping as the tires moved down the rut of a path to the house that no one ever used.

A beam of light flashed through a crack in the door.

They were about to have a visitor and there was no way out except through the barn doors. Yancy felt her panic as he moved his hand across her back trying to comfort her.

He knew she wanted to run, but from the sounds outside, the car couldn’t be more than five feet from the barn door.

Without hesitation, Yancy picked her up. With one step onto his toolbox and another on the table, he was high enough to lift her into the loft. “Get back behind the boards and don’t move.”

“But—”

“Go, Rabbit. I’ll stand guard. No matter what happens, don’t come out.”

She scrambled up. A car door opened somewhere outside. Yancy jumped from the table and ran the few feet to the loft ladder. He swung it down and shoved it beneath the table, where it blended with a pile of loose boards and scraps of materials he’d planned to trash.

As he picked up his hammer, he moved so that he faced the door, the table now between him and whoever might be showing up at this hour.

A car door slammed and footsteps sounded, coming closer, making no effort to be silent.

Yancy raised his hammer. If trouble stepped in through the barn doors, he could throw the tool and have another pulled from the wall behind him before the stranger could react. If someone were coming for the woman in the loft, they’d have to get past him first.

The door creaked and cold air rushed in as if the barn were inhaling.

“Yancy?” a low voice called. “You in here?”

Yancy was so relieved that he almost dropped the hammer. “Fifth,” he answered as Deputy Weathers stepped through the opening. “You scared the hell out of me, man.”

The tall officer smiled. “Sorry, I tend to have that effect on people. It’s hard for me to sneak into a place. I’ve tried lathering my whole body with lard because someone said it was shortening, but it didn’t work.”

“Very funny.” Yancy tried to calm his nerves, but they were still jumping under his skin. “Sounds like a joke one of the old retired teachers would tell.”

“It is. Mrs. Ollie told it to me the other day.”

Yancy forced himself not to look up at the loft. Rabbit wouldn’t come down, and he had to act like it was just an ordinary night. “You must be helping Mrs. Ollie practice so she can get her driver’s permit back. She always tells jokes when she’s nervous.”

“Yeah, she’s doing better with her driving than she is with her stand-up comedy career. Drives fine, just can’t remember if she should be in the right or left lane. Which complicates things on all these two-lane roads.”

Yancy nodded. He’d ridden with her once. His life had flashed before him so many times he thought it was in permanent reruns.

Normally, he would have visited, but tonight all he could think about was saying goodbye to his friend. “What brings you out this late, Deputy? Coming in from a date or on official business?”

“No date. I was just driving home and saw the light. Don’t usually see you working this late. Thought something might be wrong.”

“No,” Yancy said, “I’m just finishing up a project. I get out here working and forget about time.”

The deputy pulled off his hat, leaned against one of the other tables and crossed his arms. He appeared to be planted there for a while. “I almost had a date a few days ago. One of the O’Grady clan. Tall and lean with the prettiest red hair you’ve ever seen. We had a lunch date.”

“Really?” Yancy tried to act interested.

Weathers shook his head. “I think I just wanted it to be a date. She was something, but I didn’t get any signals that she was interested in me.”

“Why not ask her out again? Maybe you’ll grow on her.” Yancy added, “She’s still staying out at the Kirkland place.”

Weathers laughed. “This town is way too small. How’d you know?”

“Cap Fuller’s grandson waited on you at the window of the Dairy Queen. He told Cap you had a tall redhead with you. Anyone in this county with reddish hair is probably an O’Grady and the only one visiting is Quinn Kirkland’s niece. Kirkland told his grandmother when he visited her that she was staying with them.”

Fifth frowned and Yancy laughed.

“That does it,” Fifth swore. “I’m asking her out and taking her across the county line to eat. Nothing ever happens in this town that everyone doesn’t know about.” Weathers put his hat back on and headed toward the door. “By the way, this is going to be one fine house when you get it done.”

“It keeps me busy.” The last thing Yancy wanted to do was talk about his work, but he couldn’t exactly tell the deputy to leave. Fifth was not only a lawman, but he’d become Yancy’s friend. “This is late for you to be out, Fifth. Don’t you have to be in the office by eight?”

“Sure, but I’m working on a missing-person case. You haven’t seen a woman around? Small build. Long black hair. Midtwenties.”

“Nope,” Yancy lied. “What’d she do?”

“Nothing. She’s just missing. Has been since the end of January. Left her car at the bus station in Liberal. Woman matching her description bought a ticket to Santa Fe, but never made it there. Bus driver thinks she must have left the bus somewhere in Texas. He said he had a crowd riding that night and barely remembered her. Once she made the missing persons’ list, we’ve had reports of her buying a SUV in Waco and getting drunk in a bar near Amarillo. That’s what happens when someone puts out a quarter-million-dollar reward. She gets more sightings than aliens do.”

“If it’s illegal to get off the bus, I’m a wanted man, too.” Yancy kept his voice low and even, but it bothered him that someone was offering money for her. It made her sound like an outlaw.

What if the missing woman was his Rabbit? There were lots of small women in their twenties who had dark hair. Hundreds. Thousands in Texas.

The deputy shook his head. “She’s not wanted, just missing. I don’t know much about her except there are a hell of a lot of people looking for her. They’re calling all the places where the bus stops, asking for information. Even got a few big-time private eyes tracking her, I’ve heard.”

“There are dozens of bus stops in Texas.” Yancy wanted to ask more questions, but he knew Rabbit was listening.

Weathers shoved the door open. “That’s why I’m not wasting too much time looking. If I were on that Greyhound route, this town would probably be the last place I’d climb off the bus.”

“Maybe it was dark. The view of the water tower is better then.”

Both men laughed as the deputy moved out into the night. “Don’t work too late, Yancy.”

“I won’t,” he answered. He stood at the door and waved as Weathers backed out. The moon was up and the rain had stopped, leaving a shine on everything. Folks laughed about how plain the land was here in West Texas, how the wind seemed to turn everything to shades of brown, but locals saw the beauty.

Yancy closed the barn door and threw the latch from the inside. Something he’d never done before. “You can come down, Rabbit.” He kept his voice low, knowing that she could hear him.

She looked over the edge. “No ladder?”

“I’ll catch you.”

And he did.

If he held on to her a little too long, a little too tightly, she didn’t complain.

When he set her down, she took her time moving away. She was growing used to him being near and Yancy knew without a doubt that he was growing addicted to her.

They worked in silence for an hour. He had a dozen questions, but he didn’t ask a one. She showed him a way to cut the poles that would become a railing along the staircase. The cuts were all different from each other, shaping the poles at various angles, and at first he thought they were mismatched. Only when she laid them out in a row he saw the pattern flowing like a wave up the stairs.

“It reminds me of the way the wind makes the tall grass dip and flow,” she said then bit her lip as if suddenly unsure of her work. “You can change it if...”

“I love it.” He’d never seen anything like it. The staircase seemed to move and flow as he crossed the room. “I’ll have a work of art in my house thanks to you.”

“We’ve still got a lot of work to go before they’re sanded and stained.”

“How’d you learn to create something so beautiful out of blocks of wood?” The question was out before he thought.

“My dad taught me. I had a playhouse with a staircase like this.”

Yancy smiled, glad he hadn’t upset her with his question. “I had a box in the vacant field next to our apartment once. I called it my hideout, until some homeless guy took it over.”

They both laughed.

When she picked up his coat as if it were now hers, he knew their night was over.

“Sorry about crying,” she said. “And for stealing your coat, which I’ll give back as soon as the nights warm.”

“No problem.” He moved to unlatch the door. “One thing I have to ask, Rabbit. Are you safe when you leave here?”

She nodded. “I stay in the shadows of the trees when I walk. I have a safe hideout to live in with no homeless folks nearby.”

“I hope it’s not made of cardboard.”

Standing on her toes, she kissed his cheek. “It’s not. See you tomorrow night.”

Yancy turned and let their lips touch, making the kiss more than a peck, but just short of passionate.

He felt her tremble again.

Without moving, he whispered against her moist lips, “You’ll always be safe here.”

She moved away, but he saw the truth in her rainy-day blue eyes. She believed him. Maybe she wasn’t afraid of him. Maybe she was more afraid of being close to anyone.

Standing in the open doorway, he watched her disappear into the night. He’d broken a rule tonight. He’d lied to the law and he didn’t care. He’d do it again and again if the lies would keep her safe.

He had no idea why she wanted to step out of her life.

All he knew was that he was glad she’d stepped into his.

CHAPTER TEN

Mauve Monday’s indecision

FOR THE NEXT few days, Parker tried to come up with a plan to get to Tori without anyone following her. She worried that her gallery needed her at the helm, but deep down she knew that wasn’t true. She left it often to visit artists and to travel with some of her collection. She went to other gallery shows all over the world. She’d set up the place to run as smoothly without her as when she was there.

Tori needed her. She had to find a way to get to the farm near Crossroads. The talented painter, like many gifted people, needed someone else to help her work through the everyday problems. Parker knew this firsthand—she had lived with an established sculptor her first year out of college who could demand six figures for his work, but couldn’t remember to pay the electricity bill.

They hadn’t worked out as lovers, but he’d given her the direction for her career. She’d loved the business part of the art world. She was fascinated with the details it took to put a show together, with discovering new talent and directing their careers. She sometimes thought of herself as the director and the artists were the actors. They got the spotlight, but deep down, she knew that a little part of their success belonged to her.

This she could do. Organize. Polish. In a way, it was a safe career. She didn’t have to prove her own talent; she simply had to show off others’.

But with the travel and the late nights, she’d never had time or any real desire to develop friendships or keep a lover longer than a season. Now, when she could really use someone she could trust, there was no one to call.

Tori must have felt that way in the airport that night. Parker knew she could be the artist’s friend, only who would be Parker’s friend?

Each night she watched the news. There must not have been much going on, because a few of the stations were doing nightly updates on Victoria Vilanie’s disappearance. They had experts saying it was obviously a kidnapping. They interviewed Victoria’s high school teachers and her first art instructor in college. All said that Tori was shy. One of the anchormen said that Victoria was one of the best young painters in the country and the world couldn’t afford to lose her.

Parker watched, knowing that when she disappeared to go check on Tori, no one would mention her on the news. More and more, she realized she had to step up and be a true friend. If she didn’t, the public would eat the shy little artist alive if they found her.

So, to be that friend, Parker had to make sure that no one followed her. No one would think that she also was vanishing. She had to make her leaving look like it was simply a business trip, nothing more.

As she planned, she forgot about how her leg felt weak and how her back often hurt. She forgot how sad the young doctor had looked when he’d stared at her. He hadn’t said she had cancer. He hadn’t had to. Parker had always known someday the curse of the Lacey clan would find her. “I don’t have time to die right now,” she said to herself. “I’ve got too much to do.”

She thought of calling Dr. Brown and telling him he’d just have to wait a few weeks before he “made her comfortable,” but she guessed he would have figured that out when he’d returned to her room and found she’d gone. She’d seen his number on her list of missed calls, but she refused to call his office back. Right now she had to convince her staff that she was traveling for work while she made plans to get away totally unnoticed by anyone who might think that she had a connection to Victoria Vilanie.

To disappear, she’d need some help from someone who either knew nothing about what she was doing or could be trusted completely. A saint or an idiot, she reasoned.

Slowly, she began compiling a mental list of all the people she’d called friends over the years. One by one she made calls.

Her lab partner in college didn’t remember knowing a Parker Lacey.

Her college roommate was eight months pregnant with her fourth kid and said she didn’t have time to chat.

Two old lovers wouldn’t take her call.

Her former boss had died two years ago.

The only neighbor she knew had moved a year ago, and Parker hadn’t noticed.

Parker paced the room like a caged lion. Surely, in thirty-seven years, she’d made one friend. She didn’t need a kidney; she only needed a favor. Someone to loan her a car or pick her up from the airport after one of her staff thought they were taking her to catch a plane.

Someone she could trade IDs with, maybe? No, that would be too much like a spy novel.

Even someone to give her a ride would be nice. Surely she knew a friend who would do a favor without asking too many questions.

As the days passed she realized she was being watched. If she didn’t plan carefully, she’d lead the FBI—or worse, the press—right to Tori.

Only Tori wanted her to come. Parker had to find a way. Once they were on the farm, they’d talk. Parker would help Tori plan; after all, planning was what she was good at.

Parker thought about how the brooding cowboy on the adjacent farm would react if press crews pulled up next to his land. He barely talked to her—or anyone else—the day she’d bought her farm.

The good thing about living next to a loner like him was that she didn’t have to worry about him spreading rumors of someone living at her place. She doubted he’d even noticed Tori there. If he had, he would have thought it was none of his business.

That one trait just might classify him as a friend in her book.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

GALEN STANLEY PULLED the truck he’d rented in Liberal, Kansas, into the motel just outside Crossroads, Texas. The twilight rain was threatening to freeze over. He’d been driving for hours and was ready to stop.

The trail was cold.

His body felt every bit of his almost fifty years as he climbed from the huge rig. He could have slept in the back of the cab, but tonight, this close to the town he grew up in, he needed silence and a roof over his head.

He’d taken this assignment not because it was easy or had much chance of being successful, but because when he’d seen one of the locations he’d be checking out, he knew it was a sign telling him it was time to go back.

Back to the place he’d run from over thirty years ago. He’d been a traveler ever since.

As much as he hated to admit it, his gypsy blood sometimes whispered through his veins. He believed in signs and curses. In the past thirty years, he’d cheated death one too many times to not know that it would eventually find him. Maybe this place where it all began would be the place it all ended.

The loneliness that always weighed on his broad shoulders seemed heavier tonight. Maybe it was the knowledge that there would be no one to come home to. Not before, not now, not ever.

When he walked into the motel lobby, a sleepy old man in overalls climbed out of his recliner and limped the five feet to the counter. He didn’t look too happy at being pulled from his TV program.

“You got a room?” Galen didn’t bother to smile.

“Sixty a night for truckers. Breakfast is included.”

Galen nodded and pulled two hundreds from his wallet.

“Name?” The old man moved to a computer that looked twenty years old. “And I’ll need ID, address and an email if you got it.”

“Gabe,” Galen lied, as always. “Gabe Santorno.” He passed him a driver’s license with that name, along with an address in Denver that was simply a mail drop.

“One night, Mr. Santorno?”

“No. Two.” He hadn’t been this close to Crossroads in years. It was time he stopped working long enough to look around.

The old man chuckled. “You planning to take in the sights, stranger?”

Gabe raised his head and looked directly at the man. His gaze hardened. Fear flashed in the clerk’s eyes.

The old man lowered his gaze first. “Just making conversation, mister. Your business is your own.”

Gabe took the key and rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax. “Call me Gabe,” he said in a low tone. “And no, I don’t want to take in the sights. I just want to sleep. Tell the maid to skip my room.” The place didn’t look like it would have turndown service anyway.

“Then have a good night, Gabe.” The clerk was trying to act as if he wasn’t bothered, but he kept his head down. “If you sleep through breakfast, there’s a café in Crossroads a few miles down the road that’s worth eating at. Some say it’s got the best chicken fried steak in the state.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that.” Gabe turned to leave, then added, “Old man, you were smart not to reach for that gun you’ve got beneath the counter.”

“What makes you think I’ve got a gun?”

Gabe smiled. “You’d be a fool not to out here on this lonely stretch of highway, but I mean you no harm. I’m just a trucker passing through.”

As he walked away, he heard the old guy whisper, “You’re a hell of a lot more than that, Mr. Santorno, but it’s none of my business.”

Gabe parked the truck on a side lot and walked back to his room with his one suitcase. All he owned, all he needed was in one bag. It had been like that since he was seventeen. He’d wanted it that way.

Once inside, he locked the door and checked the windows. Then Gabe tried to relax. He stood in the shower until the water turned cold. He had a week’s worth of stubble, but he didn’t bother to shave. A man with a bit of scruff is more forgettable, he decided. And that was exactly what he wanted to be. Forgettable.

Standing wrapped in a towel, he forced himself to stare into the mirror. Scars crossed over his body like lines on a road map. Some were more than thirty years old, and some were from his army days. One, on his left shoulder—a souvenir from his last job—wasn’t quite healed. He didn’t care about any of them. He’d given up caring about anything or anyone years ago.

An army sergeant told him once that he fought like a warrior angel in a hurry to get to the afterlife. Maybe he was, but hell didn’t want him and heaven didn’t seem ready to take him in. He’d be fifty on his next birthday, and his black hair was salted with gray. One day soon, he’d lose his edge and the warrior would fall.

Gabe laughed. When that day came, he wanted to be buried in the Crossroads cemetery. Maybe that’s why he took this assignment. Maybe it was time to visit what would someday be his last resting place.

He slept until ten, then dressed in black and slipped from the back window of his motel room. The rain had stopped but the road would still be slick. As he jogged the two miles to the little town, Gabe tried to push aside the last time he’d been in Crossroads, but the memories kept flooding back.

He’d been barely seventeen and dumb enough to believe in love. Jewel Ann Grey had been a year younger and even wilder than he was. He’d loved to say her name as if it were one word.

Even though there had been bad blood between the Stanleys and the Greys for years, he and Jewel Ann had run away together one night, full of dreams for their future. Their only crime that night was loving each other.

A few hours later, her father, leading a small caravan of pickups, caught up with them. He’d brought a truckload of relatives set on teaching Gabe a lesson for thinking a Stanley boy could marry a Grey girl.

As Gabe ran on the gravel beside the road, memories of that night pounded across his mind. He’d compacted them into short blasts, like hits to his heart. The details were gone, but the pain was still there.

It had been dark and rainy, like tonight. He’d pulled over when her relatives flashed their lights, thinking he’d talk to them. Only his own dad had been just behind the Greys and there had been no talking to either man that night.

It was probably the only time the two families had ever got together. Jewel Ann’s father pulled her away, not caring that he ripped her clothes as she fought.

Gabe’s dad had shoved her relatives aside as he came after his own son with a bat.

Two of Jewel Ann’s uncles held him while his old man beat him. Her screams, as they forced her to watch, hurt worse than the blows. His dad had always been a cruel man, and he proved it that night. Once Gabe started bleeding, his old man put his hand against the wound, not to stop blood, but to make sure it flowed over his fingers. Then he took a break from the beating so he could spread blood over the girl’s breasts.

She’d screamed until she passed out. Even her father’s slaps wouldn’t wake her.

They took her home, but his dad stayed long enough to cuss his son and tell Gabe that if he ever came back he’d kill him. Even after Gabe could no longer move or even try to fight, the blows kept coming, breaking skin and bones.

His dad left his only child in the ditch, covered in blood and mud. In his mind his son had dishonored the family, and there would be no coming back home.

Gabe knew he’d die if he didn’t move, and pure rage made him get to his feet. Slowly, he limped to a truck stop a few miles down the road. It was almost dawn by the time he reached the place. There was no one to call, no use in reporting the crime. Everyone in town was afraid of his dad—even Gabe’s mother.

He hid in the back of a truck with Colorado tags and slept as it drove north across three states.

When the trucker found him later that night, he dropped Gabe off at the hospital. When the doctor realized how much blood he’d lost, he said it was a miracle Gabe was still alive. He had broken ribs, a broken arm and a concussion. And after they sewed up his cuts, he also had forty-seven stitches crisscrossing over deep bruises.

It wasn’t a miracle he’d lived, Gabe thought. It was determination. He’d spent the days in the hospital changing, hardening, so nothing would ever hurt him again.

In the midnight moonlight Gabe reached the Crossroads cemetery and pulled out his flashlight. The trees that he remembered as being small were overgrown now and permanently bent by the wind.

The Stanley family graves were there, near where the canyon dropped down off the flat land at the back of the cemetery. It wasn’t an ideal spot—on rocky ground and hard to get to by car. But Gabe always thought it had the best view of Ransom Canyon.

The facts about his parents were carved in the headstones: His father had died a few months after he’d beaten his son almost to death. His mother had died ten years later. There were no other graves in the family plot, even though it could have held a dozen more. To his knowledge, there were no more Stanleys. Only him.

He moved to the Grey family plot, looking for one name: his one love, Jewel Ann. Even in his mind, when he said her name, he said it fast as if it were one word.

There were six Grey graves dated the same year he’d been beaten. Two were names of the men he remembered holding him down that night. Jewel Ann’s uncles. No new graves since. What was left of the Grey family must have moved on. After all, both families had roaming in their blood, so it would have been unusual for them to stay on this land for so long.

Jewel Ann Grey’s grave wasn’t there. If she was dead, she hadn’t died here. Somehow that gave him comfort.

Gabe liked to think she’d married someone acceptable and moved on, but that night had probably damaged her as much as it had him.

He clicked off the flashlight and walked along the canyon’s edge, knowing one missed step on the shadowy edge might be his last, but he’d walked this close to danger so many times it felt comfortable.

Below, he saw a few lights from a little lake community. He remembered there being only a few houses near the water, but now the shadows of homes surrounded the lake and spread up the valley almost to the north road.

As he climbed above the cemetery, he could see the lights of town. Crossroads had grown, maybe even doubled in size since he’d left. It slept so quietly, Gabe had trouble believing anything bad could ever have happened there. The high school was twice the size it had once been, and there was a huge sports complex that had been only a grass field when he was in school. The main street had another block of businesses, and what looked like new housing ran along the east side.

Gabe veered onto the north road and shifted from a jog to a run. He wanted to see if his home was still standing. The place had had three generations of Stanleys who’d lived in it before he did. His dad had never repaired or painted anything, so it looked terrible when he’d lived there as a kid. Now it might only be rubble.

He saw the trees that had been big years ago. They now framed the house on three sides, hiding it from the road almost completely.

As he neared, Gabe was drawn to a sliver of light coming from a building behind the old house. A barn that hadn’t been there in his childhood.

Silently, he moved closer. The house might be dark and look like the perfect setting for a horror movie, but there was movement from what appeared to be a new barn.

For a while he stood watching the inside of the barn through the sliver of light. A young couple worked side by side. The man was tall and lean with dark hair. The woman was small, but it didn’t take much to realize that she was more skilled than the man.

He couldn’t tell if they were even talking. He only saw them cross the light as they worked. They were obviously comfortable with each other, for they often moved close together.

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