THE PERFECT CANDIDATE

Single mom and aspiring perfectionist Becca Johnston is determined to be the next mayor of Cupid’s Bow, Texas. She can’t afford distractions like her new tenant, rugged rodeo champ Sawyer McCall. Having a good man around the house means so much to her young son, and Becca is definitely enjoying the handsome cowboy’s attention. But the election is too important to risk scandalous town gossip.

Sawyer only planned on staying in Cupid’s Bow long enough to help with the upcoming centennial celebration, but with Becca and her son, he’s finally found home. When she treats him like he’s a dirty little secret, hiding him from her voters and her son, Sawyer is crushed. How can he convince her that love is the one thing she can’t control?

Becca’s eyes widened. The gorgeous cowboy from the bar? What was he doing here?

His mouth curled in a slow, satisfied smile.

“Marc, you run along and take your shower,” she instructed.

Her son, who was fairly well behaved for a second-grade boy, picked that moment to exhibit his rare rebellious streak. “Hi, I’m Marc.”

The cowboy smiled as he came closer, his long-legged stride graceful and annoyingly mesmerizing to watch. “I’m Sawyer.”

“Mr. Sawyer, do you like pizza?” Marc said.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Sawyer grinned.

“Then you should—”

“Marc! Scoot.” Becca tried to cut him off.

“—have dinner with us,” her son invited.

Becca bit back a groan; Sawyer’s eyes glittered with knowing humor as he met her gaze. He was amused by her discomfort, which did nothing to raise her opinion of him, but he had the decency to wait until her son was inside to laugh outright.

“Well,” he said as the front door slammed, “at least one of you likes me.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome back to Cupid’s Bow! Or if this is your first visit to my fictional town, I’m so glad you’re here.

The fun thing about returning to the same community over and over again is that the characters start to feel like family. I care about them and want them to be happy. When single mom Becca Johnston showed up in my first Cupid’s Bow book, Falling for the Sheriff, she was a strong-minded woman who knew how to get stuff done, practically running the town through all of her volunteer efforts and her work on the town council. Becca has really grown on me over time, and I wanted to make sure this take-charge heroine met a hero worthy of her.

Enter rodeo cowboy Sawyer McCall, who needs a place to stay for a couple weeks and rents Becca’s attic apartment. In many ways, he’s Becca’s opposite, guaranteed to drive her crazy. But sometimes the person you didn’t know you wanted in your life is exactly who you need.

I hope you enjoy Becca and Sawyer’s story and that you’ll come back to Cupid’s Bow! I’m already working on the next two books in the series. Follow me on Twitter, @TanyaMichaels, or like me on Facebook (AuthorTanyaMichaels) for updates about the series, anecdotes about my family and the writing life and to chat about favorite books and TV shows.

Hope to talk to you soon!

Tanya

The Cowboy Upstairs

Tanya Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TANYA MICHAELS, a New York Times bestselling author and five-time RITA® Award nominee, has been writing love stories since middle-school algebra class (which probably explains her math grades). Her books, praised for their poignancy and humor, have received awards from readers and reviewers alike. Tanya is an active member of Romance Writers of America and a frequent public speaker. She lives outside Atlanta with her very supportive husband, two highly imaginative kids and a bichon frise who thinks she’s the center of the universe.

For H. I love you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

“Sorry—I was trying to listen, but I got distracted by the hot cowboy in tight jeans.” Even as Hadley made the apology, her gaze remained fixed across the dining room of the barbecue restaurant. The two women on either side of her craned their heads to look.

Across the table from the oglers, Becca Johnston sighed in exasperation. “Ladies, this is Cupid’s Bow. Good-looking cowboys in Wranglers are a common occurrence. What’s uncommon is a female mayor. So, could we focus?” If Becca won the election—no, when she won—she would be only the third woman in the town’s hundred-year history to be mayor.

Sierra Bailey, seated next to Becca, smiled in encouragement, not at all distracted by the prospect of a hot cowboy—probably because she went home to her own cowboy every night. Locals had been placing bets on when her devoted rancher would officially pop the question. “You’re going to make a wonderful mayor.”

“Thank you.” Becca truly appreciated the other woman’s support and all the hours she’d spent volunteering on the campaign, in addition to her full-time job as a physical therapist. “You’re forgiven for your poster idea.” Sierra had suggested the slogan Vote for Our Favorite Control Freak!

“If it helps,” Sierra said, “I meant it as a compliment. As Jarrett will tell you, I tend toward the bossy side myself.”

In Becca’s opinion, there was nothing freakish about wanting a life that was calm and controlled. Growing up in a house with six kids, she’d craved order. Now she planned to give that gift to her friends and neighbors.

Hadley refocused on the conversation, a glint in her dark eyes; the town librarian wasn’t as blatantly outspoken as Sierra or Becca, but God help you if you defaced a book or interrupted patrons trying to read and study in peace. “In men, they call it leadership skills, but women get called ‘bossy.’ I say good for you—both of you—for not being afraid to take charge.”

It isn’t like anyone ever gave me a choice. Unwanted responsibility had been thrust on Becca as a kid. And again two years ago when her real estate agent husband fled town after a shady investment, leaving her a suddenly single mom struggling to pay the bills. Some money from a late uncle had helped her survive while she brainstormed new revenue streams, but survival wasn’t enough. She wanted to triumph.

While Hadley had, thankfully, regained her concentration, Irene and Anita were still staring after the unseen cowboy.

“Who do you think he is?” Anita asked with a sigh. “Besides my future husband.”

“Wait—none of you recognize him?” Becca swiveled in her chair, craning her head for a better look. She needed to know as many constituents as possible; if he was new to town, she should introduce herself. Then again, if a “hot cowboy” had just moved to Cupid’s Bow, wouldn’t she have heard the gossip by now? The local grapevine prided itself on speed and thoroughness.

She blinked at her first glimpse of the man. Wow. Hadley hadn’t exaggerated his appeal. Unlike her friends, Becca wasn’t usually drawn to rugged men. Her ideal type was more polished and urbane, like her ex-husband.

The man in the weathered straw cowboy hat stood facing local rancher Brody Davenport as they waited for a table; she could see only the stranger’s profile, but it was impressive. Beneath the brim of his hat, a few curls of rich brown hair fell toward his eyes. His striking cheekbones were flawless and not even the unshaven stubble of an auburn-tinged beard lessened the effect of his strong jaw. And then there were his wide shoulders, corded forearms and, as promised, the breathtaking way he filled out his je—

Oh, hell. Suddenly Becca found her gaze locked with a pair of amused eyes. She couldn’t tell their color from here, but the cocky merriment as he caught her staring was unmistakable. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she whipped her head back around. But the movement made her feel cowardly. Looking in his direction wasn’t a crime, and she wasn’t one to be intimidated by a man. Ignoring the prickle of embarrassment, she glanced back toward him and offered a casual, unimpressed smile.

He smirked.

Arrogant cowboy. She didn’t want him; she’d just wanted his vote.

* * *

DESPITE BEING HUNGRY and eager to try the barbecue Brody claimed was the best in Texas, Sawyer McCall was irrationally annoyed when the hostess showed them to a booth around the corner. Following her meant he couldn’t get a better look at the group of women on the other side of the restaurant—specifically, the woman with pale red-gold hair who’d been scoping him out with such frank appreciation before she’d studiously tried to pretend otherwise.

Too late, sweetheart. She couldn’t erase the spark of awareness they’d shared.

Once seated at the booth, he and Brody ordered a couple sweet teas. While Sawyer studied the laminated menu, his friend began once again praising the restaurant.

“Back when I was doing the rodeo circuit, The Smoky Pig is what I missed most about Cupid’s Bow.” Brody smiled, looking happier than Sawyer had ever seen him. “Of course, that was before Jazz came back to town, or she would have been what I missed most.” Last month, Brody had married a former high school classmate, Jasmine Tucker, who’d left Texas after graduation and returned to her hometown only a couple years ago. Brody had fallen hard.

Sawyer still couldn’t believe the bronc rider he used to go out drinking with was someone’s husband now. “I can’t wait to meet her.” He grinned slyly. “Especially if she’s as gorgeous as you say she is.” According to her proud new husband, Jasmine had been a model in New York City.

“No flirting with my wife, McCall.” Brody shot him a mock glare before his tone returned to normal. “You know the only reason you weren’t invited to the wedding is because it was so small and so far away, right?” Brody had admitted that he’d suggested the Caribbean ceremony because he’d wanted to prove he could be worldly, too—that marrying him didn’t mean being “stuck” in Cupid’s Bow.

“You sure the real reason you didn’t invite me was because you were afraid she’d take one look at me and decide I was the better-looking cowboy?” Sawyer smirked, but then said, “Nah, I understand. I think it’s great you two put a couple stamps in your passports. I’ve always had wanderlust myself.” Granted, most of Sawyer’s travels had been regional—Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming.

“On-the-Move McCall. When was the last time you were home?”

Sawyer shrugged, as if the answer didn’t matter. “My life’s a thrilling blur of cattle drives and training horses, pretty cowgirls and small-town motels.”

At the mention of motels, Brody frowned. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with us until after the trail ride? You’d be more than welcome.”

Cupid’s Bow was about to have its centennial celebration, a week of Western-themed festivities culminating in a three-day trail ride that would recreate the journey of the town’s founders; on the strength of Brody’s recommendation, Sawyer had been hired as one of the ride leaders. Getting here a week early allowed him plenty of time to catch up with his friend, a chance to compete in a rodeo in the next county and the opportunity to finish a series of articles he’d been writing for a Texas travel magazine. Plus, you had nowhere else to be. He hadn’t been back to the family spread since his older brother had made it clear Sawyer was no more than a glorified ranch hand.

“I appreciate the offer of letting me bunk with you.” Originally, that had been Sawyer’s plan...or as close as he came to “planning” in advance. But he’d realized today just how smitten Brody was and how awkward the role of third wheel would be. “You and Jazz are newlyweds, though. You don’t need me underfoot. I’ll check into a hotel after lunch.” It would be an added expense, but he’d had a good year between prize money and breeding rights for the bull he’d invested in. His only splurge was a new truck.

“Sure, there are a couple of hotels close by. Or you could—never mind.”

Sawyer raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “What?”

“Well, Becca Johnston has a room to rent. Since you’ll be staying for a couple of weeks, that might be more comfortable than a hotel, but she’s—”

“You boys decided what you want to eat?” A blonde waitress with a polka-dot manicure and thick drawl set their drinks in front of them. “Sorry I took so long. Lunch rush.”

Both men ordered their entrées, but as the waitress turned to go, Brody stopped her with a question. “Hey, Leanne, how would you describe Becca Johnston?”

“Terrifyingly efficient,” she said over her shoulder.

“That pretty much nails it,” Brody agreed. As the waitress walked away, he told Sawyer, “If you rented a room from Becca, your lodgings would be spotless, the meals would be tasty and she could answer any question you ever had about Cupid’s Bow. But you don’t want to cross her. Last man who did that is still missing.”

Sawyer froze with his glass halfway to his mouth, sweet tea sloshing, but then decided his friend was messing with him. “You made up that last part.”

“Exaggerated, maybe. But it’s true no one knows where her ex-husband is—including Becca. Long story short, she’s still pretty ticked. And she would hate you.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Sawyer demanded. “I’ve been told I have a winning personality.”

“Becca likes structure and setting rules. While you...are a pain in the ass.”

“But a charming one.”

Brody snorted. “Not as charming as you think. Is that our food?” He perked up at the sight of Leanne carrying a tray in their direction.

“Do you have her phone number or address?”

“Leanne’s?” Brody asked, sounding perplexed.

“Becca’s.”

“I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. Although, I suppose that’s why you’re pursuing it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Brody gave him a knowing glance. “Never met anyone who hates being told what to do more than you.”

“It’s not like I’m being stubborn for the sheer hell of it,” Sawyer defended himself. “A private room is bound to offer more peace and quiet than a hotel filled with tourists in town for the centennial celebration.”

“I’ll give you directions to Becca’s place, but it’s your funeral if you track in mud or pick an argument with her.”

“Pretty sure I can handle myself.”

“Maybe. If not...can I have your truck?”

Chapter Two

Marc Johnston watched the soccer ball, a whirl of white and black as it came at him, and wished it would roll far away. Off the field. Into the street. His mama would never let him chase it into the street. No ball, no soccer practice. He could go home to play in his room! It was too hot outside.

But that was a dumb wish. If the ball rolled into the street, his mama would chase it down and bring it back to him. She’d told him a zillion times, “I’m always here for you.” Not like his daddy, who’d gone away. Mama was never far.

Right now, she was coaching from the side of the field. “Kick the ball, Marc! You can do it!”

He swung his leg. It wasn’t really a kick, not a good one. He brushed the side of the ball, which kept moving, and lost his balance as it rolled under his foot. He wobbled, then fell on his back, the sting just enough to make him suck in a breath. Ow.

Mama jogged toward him, her face crinkly with worry. She helped him up, brushing grass and dirt off his uniform. “You okay, champ?”

“I guess.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should take a break and drink some water.”

He’d rather have soda from the machine by the bleachers, but knew better than to ask. Mama handed him a water bottle, then turned to give instructions to Jodie Prescott, who was taller than Marc even though his birthday was before hers. He didn’t like Jodie—she called him Shorty—but he was glad she was keeping Mama busy so he could go sit in the shade. There was another boy there, not in Marc’s grade, playing on a Nintendo 3DS.

“Are you here for soccer practice?” Marc asked.

The kid grunted. “Does it look like I’m playing soccer? My dad’s coaching my sister’s team over there.” He flung an arm toward another field without looking up from the screen. “I’m waiting.”

“You’re lucky you have a DS.” And lucky you have a dad. And, also, lucky he didn’t have to play soccer. “Can I have a turn?”

“No. But you can watch me.” He scooted a little closer so that Marc could see the screen.

It was the best soccer practice ever. Marc almost forgot how hot it was. He even almost forgot about his mama, who had to call his name twice when it was time to go home. On their way to the van, the way she watched him made him feel bad for not trying harder at soccer.

She brushed the back of his shirt again. “We’d better get this straight in the washer if I’m going to get the stain out.”

“Sorry.” His mother didn’t like stains. Or running in the house. Or when he forgot to swallow his food before telling her interesting stories, like how Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake got out of its cage. Marc had learned at dinner last night she also didn’t like stories about Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake.

“You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong—everyone falls down.”

“Even you?” It was hard to imagine Mama falling. She never messed up.

“On occasion.” She hit the key button that made the doors unlock. He got in the back seat, wishing he was big enough to sit in the front. It felt lonely back here.

Although she started the engine, she didn’t drive anywhere. She looked at him in the mirror. “Marc, are you enjoying soccer?”

If he told her the truth, would he still have to play? Probably. She was the coach. They couldn’t just quit the team. “Soccer’s okay.”

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Yes, Mama.”

She sighed. She made that sound a lot. Marc didn’t remember her doing it so much when his dad lived with them, but those memories were blurry, like when he tried to see underwater at the community pool.

“Mama? A girl in my class has parents with a divorce.”

“Parents who are divorced.”

“She says she lives with her dad in the summer. Is it summer soon?”

“Next month, after the election.”

“Will I live with Daddy then?”

“No, I’m afraid not, champ.” Her eyes were shiny in the mirror, like she might cry, and Marc wished he hadn’t asked. “But I’ll do my best to make sure you and I have a great summer. Okay?”

“Okay.” He looked out his window. “Is Mr. Zeke coming back?” For months, the bald, smiling man had been around their house, making what Mama called ren-o-vations. Mr. Zeke had shown Marc cool drills and saws.

“Not anytime soon. The attic’s finished now, so he’s moved on to his next job. But now that the attic apartment is ready to rent, maybe we’ll have guests.”

That would be nice. It would be even better if whoever came to stay with them was as cool as Mr. Zeke.

* * *

BECCA HAD MIXED feelings about her son’s silence on the drive home. On the one hand, she’d had a very long day and appreciated the few minutes of peace. But she was worried; quiet reflection was not the seven-year-old’s natural state. Was he still in pain from his fall? More likely he’s still in pain from his father’s defection. The questions about when he would see his dad, followed by whether or not the general contractor would be back, made it pretty clear that he missed having a man to look up to in his life.

Her throat burned. Nothing mattered more to her than her son, but she couldn’t be everything to him. The town’s upcoming centennial celebration was taking up her time for the next couple weeks. But maybe after that, she could invite Zeke, a widower in his late fifties, over for dinner—a home-cooked thank-you for a job well done.

By the time they rolled into the driveway, the stillness in the minivan was becoming oppressive. This called for emergency measures. “How about I order pizza for dinner while you take your shower?”

The excited whoop from the back seat made her smile. She’d barely pulled the keys from the ignition before her son flew out of the vehicle and up the three wide porch steps. There, he sat dutifully to remove his cleats. She took a minute to stare at the house, gleaming white in the Texas sunshine, and remembered the day she and Colin had moved in. It was a beautiful two-story home, complete with a porch swing, surrounding rosebushes and gorgeous maple trees in the yard. It had all symbolized how far she’d come from an overcrowded double-wide trailer on a gravel lot. To her, this house had been the castle at the end of the fairy tale.

It still can be. She clenched her fists at her sides, summoning determination. Okay, yes, Colin had turned out to be more fraudulent frog than prince. But she didn’t need him for a happy ending. She would become mayor and raise a wonderful son.

“Mama, I can’t get this knot out.”

Joining Marc at the top of the steps, she knelt down over his shoe. Her promise of pizza must have really improved his mood, because by the time she’d unlaced both cleats, he was happily chatting away. She didn’t even register the sound of the vehicle at the bottom of the driveway until the door closed.

“Excuse me,” a deep masculine voice called, “are you by any chance Becca J—”

As she turned, the man stopped dead, recognition striking them both. The cowboy from the bar? What was he doing here? Stalking her?

“You,” he breathed. His mouth curled in a slow, satisfied smile. “You’re the woman who was checking m—”

“Marc, you run along and take your shower,” she instructed. She was about to throw this man off her property. It was probably better that her son didn’t witness it...or overhear any of the man’s lewd commentary on what she may have been “checking.” Unbelievable. She’d ogled a stranger once since her divorce, and he’d followed her home. What were the odds?

“Uh, Mama? The door’s locked.”

Right. She knew that. She fiddled with the key, but the dead bolt got only part of her attention. The sense that she could feel the man’s gaze on her was distracting. “There you go, champ.” She swung the main door wide open, expecting her son to reach for the handle on the inner screen door.

Instead, he hesitated, waving at the approaching cowboy. “Hi, I’m Marc.”

The cowboy smiled, his long-legged stride graceful and annoyingly mesmerizing to watch. “I’m Sawyer.”

Marc’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the man’s gold belt buckle, etched with a cowboy on the back of a bucking horse; Becca read the word champion before realizing that she was staring in the direction of the man’s groin, and averted her eyes. “Did you win a rodeo?” her son asked.

“Quite a few.”

“That is so cool! Maybe I’ll ride in a rodeo someday,” Marc said, surprising Becca. He’d never expressed any interest in that. “I take riding lessons from Ms. Meredith. She’s nice, but I like Ms. Kate better. She’s my piano teacher. She gives me cookies.”

Hearing him list his teachers out loud, Becca mentally kicked herself. She’d inadvertently surrounded him with women. Why hadn’t she checked to see if Jarrett Ross was taking on any more riding students over at his ranch? In Becca’s defense, Marc’s soccer coach was supposed to have been a man. But when he’d broken his leg the first week of the season, she’d stepped up to fill the void.

Sawyer winked down at her son. “Keep at that piano practice. The ladies love musicians.”

Yeah, that’s what her seven-year-old needed—advice on picking up women. From the cocky way Sawyer carried himself, she just bet he had plenty of experience in that area. “Ladies also love hygiene,” she said wryly. “Now about your shower...”

Marc opened the screen door. “Back in a minute!”

“Take your time and do the job right,” Becca cautioned. “There’s no rush.”

“But I’m hungry. If I hurry, I get pizza faster. Mr. Sawyer, do you like pizza?”

“As a matter of fact, I love it.”

“Then you should—”

“Marc! Scoot.”

“—have dinner with us,” her son invited.

Becca bit back a groan; Sawyer’s eyes glittered with humor as he met her gaze. He was amused by her discomfort, which did nothing to raise her opinion of him.

“Well,” he said as Marc disappeared inside, “at least one of you likes me.”

Now that he was on the step just below her, she could see his eyes were green, flecked with gold, and she hated herself for noticing. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said tightly, “I need to call in an order for pizza.” That would give her an opportunity to regain her composure.

He smirked. Didn’t the man have any other expressions? “Want to know what toppings I like?”

She shot him a look that should have vaporized him on the spot, leaving nothing but his memory and scorch marks on the sidewalk.

“I’ll just wait here then,” he said, moving past her to make himself comfortable on the porch swing. He even took his hat off and ran a hand through his brown hair. In the sunlight, a few threads shone a deep coppery red, much darker than her own strawberry blond.

His hair was thick, wavy, and she wondered errantly if it was soft to the touch. Rebecca Ruth Baker Johnston, pull yourself together. Just because she hadn’t had sex in the two years since Colin skipped town was no reason to become unhinged in hormonal desperation. She marched into the house, locking the door behind her. No matter how good-looking he was, Sawyer was a stranger; she was a single woman with a child to protect. She called the pizza place, but she was so preoccupied that there was no telling what she ordered. For all she knew, instead of a large pepperoni pie with extra olives, dinner tonight might be a piece of garlic bread and six liters of soda.

Well, that’s what she got for stalling. Her philosophy had always been to tackle problems efficiently, then put them behind her. Time to figure out why this cowboy was here and send him on his way. She returned to the porch, her tone brisk as she asked, “So is Sawyer your first name or last?”

“First. Sawyer McCall.” He extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Officially.”

Her fingers brushed over his in something too brief to qualify as a handshake before she pulled away. “Becca Johnston. What are you doing here?” Besides bonding with my son and trying to mooch free pizza.

“Brody Davenport sent me. I don’t know if you happened to notice while you were undressing me with your eyes—”

She exhaled in an outraged squeak.

“—but he’s who I was having lunch with. Brody and I are old friends. He contacted me a few months ago about coming to town to help with the centennial trail ride and to finally meet Jasmine. I need a place to stay.”

That place sure as hell wouldn’t be under her roof. “There are two motels in the Cupid’s Bow area,” she said. “I can draw you maps to both of them.”

He bobbed his head. “Yeah, Brody said you were pretty much an expert on this town—which would be useful to me, since I’m writing a travel piece. Brody also said that if I stayed here, the room would be spotlessly clean and the food would be excellent.”

She bit the inside of her lip. When she’d had the bright idea to rent out her attic, she’d been thinking more in terms of single women who might feel vulnerable staying alone at a hotel, or who would appreciate bubble baths in the spacious claw-foot tub. Maybe she could even rent the room as a long-term apartment to a woman like herself, divorced and needing to regroup. She certainly hadn’t considered giving the key to a smug, sexy stranger. “I think I would prefer female tenants,” she said. “At least until I get a guard dog.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a dog person.”

She wasn’t; training and grooming seemed like a lot of work when she was already stretched thin with limited hours in the day. But she resented being pigeonholed. “You don’t know anything about me, Mr. McCall.”

“No, but from what Brody said...” He cleared his throat, looking sheepish.

Ah. So there’d been more to the rancher’s characterization of her than the promise of a clean house and good food. All Sierra’s teasing about being a control freak echoed in Becca’s head.

“Do you currently have any female tenants scheduled?” Sawyer asked.

“Well, not yet.”

“I can pay up front. Cash. And I can give you a list of references, including Brody and his aunt Marie, to assure you I’m not some whack-job.”

She’d known Marie Davenport, a now-retired 911 operator, for years. And there was no denying Becca could use the money; her salary running the community center and her stipend as a town-council member were barely a full-time income. That’s why she’d decided to invest in renovating her attic to an apartment in the first place, so she could rent it to a paying customer. Yes, but...him?

Becca had spent her life mastering the art of structure. During the happier moments of her marriage, she’d relaxed, grown complacent, and she’d paid for it with scandal and divorce. Now, she was more determined than ever to keep her life smooth and orderly. Sawyer McCall might be smooth, with his glib manner and roguish smile, but instinct screamed that life would be anything but orderly with this cowboy living upstairs.

“Mr. McCall, I really don’t think—”

The screen door banged open and a mini tornado gusted across the porch in the form of her son, his green dinosaur pajamas plastered to the wet chest and limbs he hadn’t bothered to dry. “You’re still here! Are you staying for pizza? Mama, can I show him my space cowboys and robot horses?”

Becca studied her son’s eager face and tried to recall the last time she’d seen him look so purely happy. “Mr. McCall and I aren’t finished talking yet, champ. Why don’t you go set the table for three?” She wasn’t convinced she would rent the room to Sawyer, but a slice of pizza was a small price to pay for her son’s beaming smile.

Marc disappeared back inside as quickly as he’d come.

She took a deep breath. “The attic apartment has its own back stair entrance and a private bathroom. No kitchen, although there’s a small refrigerator up there for beverages and snacks. Whoever I rent the room to is welcome to join Marc and me for meals—but in exchange, I was hoping to find someone with a bit of child-care experience. Occasional babysitting in trade for my cooking.” She’d only just now had that brainstorm, realizing how much it would mean to Marc to be around a man, but it sounded plausible. And if Sawyer said no, it would help justify turning him away.

He shrugged. “Sounds reasonable. I’m no child-care expert, but I’ve worked with kids at equestrian camps and on family trail rides.”

She sighed, regretting what she was about to say before it even left her mouth. “Then, assuming your references check out, you’ve got a deal, Mr. McCall.”

His grin, boldly triumphant and male, sent tiny shivers up her arms. “When do I get to see my room?”

Chapter Three

Sawyer braved his landlady’s glare, her blue eyes like the center of a flame. Fiery was a good description for her—hot, but projecting the aura that a man should stay back for his own safety. At the restaurant earlier, he’d seen her sitting down. She was a lot taller than he’d expected, trim and shapely in her polo shirt and shorts. When he first drove up, her kid had been wearing a numbered practice jersey; Becca wore a whistle on the cord around her neck. Team coach, maybe? She seemed like the kind of person who wanted to be in charge.

And not at all like a woman who changed her mind easily. Despite his claims at lunch that he was charming and likable, Sawyer was almost surprised she’d agreed to rent him the room. Her expression when she’d first seen him in the driveway had suggested she was more likely to back over him than take him in as a guest.

“Come on,” she said irritably. “We might have enough time before the pizza comes for you to see the room.” She opened the door, but stood there, barring his entrance as she studied his boots. “You can leave those on the porch.”

Her tone rankled. He wasn’t her damn kid. “Yes, ma’am. I promise to wash my hands before eating, too.”

She gave him another narrow-eyed glare. Probably deserved that one. Instead of halfheartedly apologizing for his sarcasm, he gave her a winning smile. She pressed a finger to her forehead as if physically pained.

Maybe he should stay at a hotel, after all. Brody was right about him—Sawyer had a habit of provoking bossy people. Wouldn’t sharing a house with a woman who already disliked him needlessly complicate life?

Nah. In only a matter of minutes, he’d convinced her to change her mind about renting to him. In a matter of weeks, he could win her over entirely. Sawyer liked a challenge. Besides, in the unlikely event that he failed, it was just a few weeks out of his life. After that, he’d be putting Cupid’s Bow behind him.

He placed the boots neatly by the front door. “After you.”

Brody hadn’t exaggerated when he predicted the place would be spotless. The hardwood floors gleamed; the creamy walls looked freshly painted. There were no toys scattered about or fingerprint smudges. If he hadn’t seen Marc with his own eyes, Sawyer never would have believed a little boy lived here.

The narrow hallway opened up into a living room and Sawyer winced. “Is my room this...pink?” The low-backed sofa and two armchairs were all the same shade, coordinating with a striped circular rug that took up most of the floor.

“Mauve,” she corrected, studying the furniture with him. “With cranberry accents.”

Cranberry? An Aggies football fan, he would have called the dark throw pillows and decorative candles “maroon.” At least then it would be showing team support for Texas A&M.

Her tone was defensive. “I think it looks nice, but to answer your question, no, this isn’t the color scheme I used in the attic.” She suddenly brightened. “Still, I completely understand if the accommodations here aren’t to your liking. I can still give you directions to either of those hotels.”

He should probably be insulted that she was so eager to get rid of him. “I’m sure the room will be just fine. Even if the bed’s lumpy, with mismatched sheets, it’ll be better than all the times I’ve slept on the ground during a trail ride or stayed in a crappy motel room.” He’d been to rodeos in luxury Vegas settings and tourist-destination stockyards, but those weren’t the norm.

“Mr. McCall, I do not make up beds with mismatched sheets.”

He couldn’t help grinning at her affronted tone; the woman took her linens seriously. “I’ve always cared more about what happens between the sheets than about whether they match.”

She sucked in a breath, but the doorbell rang, saving him from a potentially blistering retort. Redirecting her anger, she glared toward the front of the house. “That better not be the pizza already!”

Was she that set on having events unfold according to her timeline? “Most people are happy when they don’t have to wait long for delivery.”

“There are three regular drivers,” she said, as she dug through her purse. “But Keesha only works weekends. Which leaves D. B. Janak, who I happen to know has the flu, because I ran into his girlfriend at the store, and Callum Breelan, who is proving to be just as bad as his disreputable uncles.” Money in hand, she strode toward the door, rattling off the rest of her explanation over her shoulder. “Only seventeen and he already has one speeding ticket and two warnings—Deputy Thomas went easy on him. I don’t need lead-foot Callum using my dinner as an excuse to mow down pedestrians and small animals.”

Sawyer blinked at the unexpected blast of information. She’d been talking too fast about people he’d never met for him to process all of it. The upshot seemed to be Becca knew a lot about her neighbors. And had strong opinions.

While she stood at the door haranguing the delivery boy about his driving habits, Sawyer found his way down the hall to a huge kitchen, the kind that was big enough to include a full-size dining room table and china cabinet. Marc stood on his tiptoes at a marble-topped island, trying to pour lemonade into a red plastic superhero cup. Sawyer lunged forward, taking the pitcher from the boy’s hands just as it started to wobble.

“Here, better let me get that for you. I’m guessin’ your mama doesn’t like spills.”

The boy shook his head, eyes wide. They were the same color as Becca’s. “She hates messes. And snakes, even though they’re cool.”

“Not all of them,” Sawyer said. He’d had a few close encounters with rattlesnakes and copperheads he’d rather not think about. He eyed the pitcher on the counter, noting the slices of fresh lemon bobbing inside it; obviously, Becca did not serve lemonade that came from powder. “Where can I find a glass?”

Marc directed him to a cabinet next to the stainless steel refrigerator—not that it was easy to see the silver steel beneath the clutter. The kitchen was pristine—no dirty dishes in the sink, no mail sitting on the counter—but the fridge was practically wallpapered in Marc’s schoolwork, crayon drawings and photos. As he looked closer, Sawyer realized there were also a number of newspaper clippings that all seemed to be about Cupid’s Bow events. One mentioned a Watermelon Festival, while another—

“Can I help you find something in particular?” Becca asked from behind him, her voice icy.

Busted. He straightened, making light of his snooping. “Guess I was just curious about the family I’ll be staying with, trying to reassure myself that you and Marc here aren’t—” he’d been about to say ax murderers, but murder jokes weren’t appropriate in front of the little boy “—aliens from outer space.” That made the kid giggle, and Sawyer winked at him. “Or dangerous robots. Or spies for the CIA!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Becca said, exasperated. “Our CIA handler is the one who gave us all that fake documentation to support our covers in the first place.”

Sawyer rocked back on his heels. So she did have a sense of humor? Good to know. The next few weeks were looking up already. He grinned at her, but she turned away to set the pizza on the table, almost as if she were hiding her smile.

“Marc was kind enough to show me where the glasses are,” he said, pulling one from the cabinet. “The lemonade looks delicious. Want me to pour you some, too?”

She cocked her head, seeming confused by the question.

“Becca?”

“Sorry, I’m not used to someone else serving me in my own kitchen. Lemonade would be lovely, thank you.”

Sawyer remembered Brody mentioning an ex-husband who’d bailed on her and the boy. How long had she been alone, that something as simple as someone else pouring her a drink was jarring?

“Wait, Marc, slow down!” Becca batted her son’s hand away from the open box as Sawyer joined them at the table. “The pizza’s still pretty hot.”

“Guess what, Mama? I’ve decided not to get a pet snake when I grow up.”

“Oh, good.” She dropped her arm around his shoulders in a brief hug. “I was going to talk you out of it, anyway, but this saves me the trouble.”

The oval table was big enough to seat eight. Marc and Becca sat next to each other, toward the center, and Sawyer went around to the other side, taking the chair opposite Marc.

“It’s so cool Mr. Sawyer could have dinner with us!” Marc grinned so broadly that Sawyer noticed for the first time that the kid was missing one of his bottom teeth.

Becca hesitated. “Actually, he might be staying a few days. Or longer.”

“In the new upstairs room?” Marc shot out of his seat with a whoop of excitement.

“Marc Paul Johnston, what kind of table manners are those?”

“Sorry.” He slid back into his chair, his tone sheepish. But he was still smiling.

Sawyer locked his gaze on his plate, not wanting to make eye contact with the kid. If he returned Marc’s grin, Becca might think he was encouraging the boy’s rambunctious behavior. Besides, it was discomfiting to be the source of so much joy. He’d signed autographs for kids at rodeos and assisted tourists with children, but he’d never had prolonged exposure to one. You’ll be an uncle soon. Would he be close to his future niece or nephew? Doubtful. He sure as hell wasn’t close to his brother.

Charlie hadn’t even been the one to share the news that he and his wife were expecting; Sawyer’s mom had told him the last time he talked to her on the phone. The next day, Charlie had sent a terse email and Sawyer had replied with dutiful congratulations. That had been a couple weeks ago, and he could still hear his mother’s chiding tone in his head.

Gwen’s due at the end of October. Surely you’ll want to arrange your schedule so that you can be here?

He’d told her he really couldn’t say what his schedule would be in the fall, but that he’d be in touch. Then he’d quickly found an excuse to get off the phone. The truth was, even if he could make it, what would be the point? His sister-in-law was a nice lady, but her own family lived close to the ranch, so she had plenty of support. And as for Charlie... Ever since his older brother had returned to the ranch from college, the two of them could barely be in the same room without an argument erupting. Their father always sided with Charlie. Their mother just wanted everyone to get along. In her mind, that meant Sawyer—the outnumbered younger son—should cave.

“Something wrong with your pizza?” Becca asked tentatively.

Sawyer realized he was scowling. “Uh...you were right about it being hot. I burned the roof of my mouth,” he lied.

“Kenny Whittmeyer’s dad burned his hand when he took Kenny and me camping,” Marc volunteered. “We were roasting marshmallows and he said a whole bunch of bad words. I—”

A trumpet sound came from beneath the table, and Becca shifted in her seat, pulling a cell phone from the pocket of her shorts. She glanced at her son. “You know I’m only checking this because of the race, right?”

He nodded, informing Sawyer, “Mama has a no-phone rule at the table. But we make ex-sections ’cause of the race.”

“Exceptions,” Becca corrected absently, reading a text. She frowned, but put the phone away rather than responding. “Who wants the last slice of pizza?”

Sawyer shook his head, letting the growing boy snag it, and reached for his glass. “What’s this race you mentioned? Are you a runner?” He could easily imagine her in a marathon. She seemed disciplined enough, and judging from her toned figure, she did something to keep in shape.

“Not literally. I’m running for mayor.”

Sawyer choked on his lemonade.

“You find that funny, Mr. McCall?”

Hell, yes. Weren’t politicians supposed to kiss babies and suck up to people? Becca was far too imperious for that. She hadn’t even been able to pay for a pizza without lecturing the hapless delivery boy.

She misinterpreted the smile he was fighting. “I’ll have you know that women are every bit as capable as—”

“Whoa. No argument here. I’ve known plenty of badass women.”

“So what’s the big joke?” She challenged, those eyes sparking again.

He doubted there was any answer that wouldn’t get him in trouble. Might as well go with the truth. “The idea of you courting votes is a little funny, don’t you think? You seem like someone who speaks her mind, whether the opinion is popular or not.”

“And that’s bad? Community leaders should be honest and straightforward.”

“In theory, sure.” Feeling Marc’s gaze on him reminded Sawyer that there was a seven-year-old listening to his cynicism. “But don’t listen to me. I’m just an outsider. What do I know about the people of Cupid’s Bow?”

Becca stood, gathering up the empty plates. “About that—you being an outsider? Would you mind finishing your lemonade on the porch and enjoying the evening breeze while I call Brody Davenport? I need to start checking your references.”

“No problem.” He scraped his chair back. “Checking up on me is the responsible thing to do.”

She gave him a smile that was part apology, part amusement. “Well, I’d hate to accidentally rent the room to a dangerous alien robot.”

“That would be awesome!” Marc said.

“Which,” she told him affectionately, “is why I’m the one who makes the decisions around here.”

Sawyer understood not letting a second grader run the household, but alien robots aside, he was pretty sure Becca preferred to be the one making decisions no matter who was involved. Just like Charlie. But a hell of a lot prettier.

* * *

AFTER BECCA FINISHED her phone call, she tucked in Marc, who was supposed to read for thirty minutes, then go to sleep. From the excitement on his small freckled face, she suspected he wouldn’t be falling asleep anytime soon. She wasn’t sure yet how she felt about her new tenant, but she had to admit he’d been great with her son.

She should go thank him. And let him know the room was officially his.

She stepped onto the front porch, where the heat was sticky in comparison to the air-conditioned house but not intolerable. Intolerable came in August. Sawyer glanced up from the swing with that too-appealing grin that could’ve belonged to a movie star; the spectacularly vivid sunset behind him added a cinematic effect. The only thing missing was a musical score. Becca told herself she was unaffected and had always liked books more than films, anyway.

“Did Brody vouch for me?” he asked.

“He said I should kick you to the curb—that you’re a pain in the ass who likes to get his own way.”

Sawyer shrugged. “Well, who doesn’t like to get his way?”

Hard to argue that. Brody had also said Sawyer was dependable, loyal and never drank to excess or let himself get goaded into bar fights, like a few of their former rodeo friends.

“Let me show you the room. Pay me cash for tonight, and you can decide in the morning how long you’re staying, after you’ve had a chance to judge the accommodations for yourself.” She almost said something about making sure the bed was comfortable, but stopped herself, recalling his comment about sheets earlier. She did not need to hear any jokes about what took place in his bed.

He unfolded himself from the swing, and she took a moment to appreciate the novelty of being with someone taller than she was. Only a handful of men here in Cupid’s Bow were. In elementary school, she’d hated being the tallest in her class—probably the tallest in the whole school. But she’d decided her height was an advantage at home. Towering over her siblings helped her secure their obedience.

She’d foolishly taken it as a good sign that she and her ex-husband had been the same height; she’d joked to a friend that there was no better way to start a life together than seeing eye to eye. Nice symbolism, lousy results. Pushing aside memories of her failed marriage, she opened the door.

After Sawyer’s reaction to her “pink” furniture, she was hyperaware of her feminine decorating touches as she led him to the back of the house. The hallway was lined with pictures of her and Marc in scallop-edged and filigree frames. A curved glass vase of yellow roses sat on the kitchen counter. The delicately patterned stair runner that went up to the second floor looked like lace from a distance.

Although Sawyer would never see it, her own bedroom was a frilly, silky haven complete with scented candles and ornamental pillows too small to have any practical purpose. Becca prided herself on being sensible and getting things done; she wielded coupons with genius, killed bugs and occasional rodents and could single-handedly fix a lot of the plumbing problems that came with home ownership. But after growing up in a grungy trailer with three brothers—and later, two sisters who wore their brothers’ hand-me-downs—she couldn’t resist surrounding herself with soft, girlie indulgences.

The staircase felt uncharacteristically cramped with Sawyer on the steps behind her, as if he was closer than decency permitted. She suddenly wished she was wearing a loose T-shirt that hung down past her butt instead of a tucked-in polo shirt. Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing wrong with your butt, and you don’t care about his opinion of it, anyway. Although...turnabout being fair play, it would make them even if he noticed her body. She’d certainly ogled his earlier today.

“The master bedroom, guest room and Marc’s room are all on this floor,” she said, as they reached the landing. “The attic is one more flight up.”

The extra trip involved a narrow spiral staircase with an iron railing.

A quarter of the way up, Sawyer huffed out an exaggerated breath. “Good thing I’m in shape. But just in case, do you know CPR?”

Of course she did. She’d taken half a dozen first-aid and emergency preparedness classes when she’d been pregnant. But she said nothing, refusing to encourage any jokes about her mouth on Sawyer’s—which didn’t stop the forbidden image from flashing through her mind. The man might be cocky and unapologetically brash, but he’d demonstrated moments of thoughtfulness this evening, too. The right combination of confidence and attentiveness could make for a devastating kiss. Her toes curled inside her sneakers.

Get a grip, Rebecca.

She had no business thinking about kissing her tenant. Or anyone else, until the centennial celebration was over. She was the chairwoman of the centennial committee, and a flawless series of public events would help her win this election. Stick to the plan.

While she was at it, she needed to stick to an impersonal, informative tour—more letting him know where the clean towels were, less imagining where his hands would be if he were kissing her. “Coming up from the outside will be a lot easier than this. The house was built into a little bit of a hill, so the staircase is short. Not to mention, using the private entrance will be less disruptive to me and Marc if you keep late hours.”

Would he be staying out late? He was a good-looking single man in a town with two bars and a popular dance hall. Opportunities abounded. Her stomach clenched. What if he wasn’t alone when he came back to his room at night?

She bit the inside of her lip, conflicted. She didn’t really have the right to insist he be celibate while he was in Cupid’s Bow...but she was responsible for the impressionable child sleeping one floor below.

The attic door wasn’t a standard size; they both needed to duck slightly to go through it. Inside the room, the ceiling was comprised of crazy, irregular angles, but nothing that Sawyer would bang his head on.

“Cozy,” he said, looking around. “I meant that in a good way, promise.”

To their left was a queen-size bed covered in a quilt she’d won in an auction at the Cupid’s Bow Watermelon Festival; to the right was a small sitting area with two antique chairs, a bookshelf and a modest-sized, flat-screen TV. He would also have his own microwave and mini fridge. The windows were tiny, reminiscent of the portholes on a ship. When she’d had Zeke install the back door, she’d also asked him to include sidelights for a little more sunshine.

“See? No pink,” she told him. The general decorating theme up here was “furniture I didn’t need anywhere else in the house” but she’d tried to tie everything together with navy and cream. “Bathroom’s around the corner. Everything you need should be in the linen closet, but let me know if I overlooked anything.”

He poked his head through the doorway and laughed. “I haven’t seen a tub like that since Granny’s house.”

“And where did Granny live? Brody talked about how long he’d known you, but didn’t mention where you’re from.”

“Most of my family is west of here, toward the Hill Country. We have a... My father and brother run a spread in Kerr County.”

“Are you close to them?”

He rocked back on his heels, thumbs in his belt loops. “Let’s just say, I thought it would be better to strike out on my own.”

“I can relate to that,” she said softly, more to herself than him. Her earliest memories were of her trucker father kissing her goodbye and telling her to take care of “Mama and the baby” while he was gone. Her younger brother Everett hadn’t even been a year old when their mother got pregnant with the twins. That had been a complicated pregnancy, with a lot of doctor-mandated bed rest, and Odette Baker had never really been the same afterward. By the time Becca was ten and the first of her sisters was born, she was actively fantasizing about the day she could move away.

“You’re not from Cupid’s Bow?” Sawyer asked. “With you running for mayor and talking like you know everybody in town, I figured you were born here.”

“Nope. I grew up a little over an hour away.” Cupid’s Bow was separated from her hometown by eighty minutes...and a world of experience. Back home, all she’d ever wanted was to escape. From the minute Colin had brought her to Cupid’s Bow, all she’d wanted was to belong. She loved it here. She loved the people and the open spaces. She loved that she could see an unending blue horizon unimpeded by skyscrapers, and brilliant stars not strangled by city lights or air pollution. “Cupid’s Bow is the perfect size for me. The population’s under four thousand, so it has small-town charm, but it’s not so small that the only businesses are eponymous.”

He raised an eyebrow. “E-pony-what-now?”

“Self-named. In the town I grew up in, there was one restaurant—Ed’s Diner. Never mind that it sucked. And the only place to get your hair cut was Shirl’s. Owned and operated by—”

“Let me guess—Shirl?”

She nodded. “There’s healthy market competition here in Cupid’s Bow, but we haven’t been overrun by generic franchises. It’s the perfect balance.”

“And you want to become mayor so you can maintain that balance?”

“Well, that...and I like telling people what to do.”

He laughed. “I feel sorry for the poor slob running against you.”

“That would be the incumbent,” she said, her mood darkening as she remembered Sierra’s text from earlier. Last election, Mayor Lamar Truitt had run unopposed. Displeased that Becca had the nerve to challenge him, he was constantly looking for chances at passive-aggressive sabotage. “Which reminds me, I have some phone calls to make. I should let you settle in.” She reached in her pocket for the key to the attic entrance, but hesitated. “I’ll have breakfast on the table at 6:00 a.m. I know that’s early, but I have to get Marc to school.”

“Actually, I’ll already be gone by then. Brody and I plan to get in some sunrise fishing before heading to look at livestock. He’s thinking about expanding his herd.”

She wasn’t so much interested in his plans tomorrow as she was in making a necessary point. “While you’re here, Mr. McCall—”

“Sawyer.” He gave her a chiding smile. “I insist.”

“While you’re here, it’s best if you come down to breakfast alone.”

His smile faded to a perplexed expression. “I just told you, I won’t be here for breakfast.”

“I don’t mean tomorrow, I mean in general. It would be better if you don’t bring any...guests to breakfast.”

Comprehension lit those gold-green eyes. After a moment, he smiled. “I see. Rest assured, I will only show up at the breakfast table as a party of one.”

Relieved to have that settled, she wished him a good night and turned toward the door.

She was on the staircase when he called from behind her, “No need to bring guests down for food, anyway. I can just keep the fridge stocked and serve breakfast in bed.”

Chapter Four

It was still dark outside when Brody called to say he was turning onto Becca’s street, but, judging by the enthusiastic dawn chorus of birds outside Sawyer’s room, sunrise was coming. He went down the flight of stairs behind the house and had just reached the bottom when a pair of headlights shone across the driveway. He swung open the passenger door of Brody’s pickup, greeted by the welcome smell of coffee.

“You survived the night,” Brody observed.

Sawyer climbed into the cab. “Sorry to disappoint you—I know you want my truck if Becca decides to spike my food with hemlock. Give her time. I don’t generally drive people to homicidal rages until they’ve known me at least twelve hours. I hear you were completely unhelpful as a character reference, by the way.”

“You wanted me to lie to her? Cupid’s Bow is my home.” Brody sipped from a travel mug, handing a second one to Sawyer. “After you get on her nerves and she runs you out of town—or buries you in the city park—I still have to face her.”

“Don’t want to run afoul of the new mayor, huh?”

“It’ll be interesting to see who wins the election. Truitt’s sort of...blandly competent. Not someone who inspires devotion, but his cronies have a fair amount of combined influence in town. Becca could be great, if anyone bothers to vote for her. She’s outspoken—”

“Gee, I hadn’t noticed.”

“—and may have stepped on a few toes during her time on the town council. Half the town is afraid of her, and Jazz and I haven’t decided if that’s going to work for or against her. Maybe people will be too scared not to vote for her.”

Sawyer chuckled. “Well, she doesn’t scare me.” Rather, she intrigued him, her steel-spined demeanor a seeming contradiction to the house she’d decorated with soft, frilly things. And she amused him, with her unexpected playful side, as well as impressing him with how much she clearly loved her kid. Sawyer had a lot of respect for mothers; the only person in his family he tried to maintain a relationship with was his mom.

“Wait a minute.” Brody peered at him in the dim light of the glowing dashboard. “You like her, don’t you? I thought the two of you would drive each other crazy.”

Because she was admittedly bossy and he had a habit of provoking people—especially when it brought fire to a pair of unforgettable blue eyes? “Like I said, give it time.”

* * *

“...AND YOU JUST know the bastard did this on purpose,” Sierra concluded, pacing the length of Becca’s living room as she ranted.

Seated on the sofa with her legs tucked beneath her, Hadley Lanier nodded, her dark ponytail swishing. Her summary of the situation was the same as Sierra’s, but with significantly less cursing. “This is another lame attempt to sabotage you.”

Originally, Becca had invited the two women over for a girls’ night, since Marc was spending his Friday evening at dinner and a movie with the Whittmeyers. But plans for lighthearted conversation over sangria had become an impromptu strategy session now that Mayor Truitt had abruptly cut the budget for the upcoming centennial celebration.

“Emergency reallocation of funds, my ass,” Sierra said, snagging her wineglass as she passed by the coffee table on her next lap. “Everyone associates you with the celebration, which means you could lose the election if people are disappointed enough with the festivities. He’s manufacturing obstacles just to make you look bad.”

“Let him try,” Becca said calmly. The idiot had been trying to steer public opinion about her ever since January, when the paperwork had come in with enough signatures to officially qualify her as a candidate. At the Valentine’s Day celebration—which she’d chaired—he’d been careful to praise the job she’d done, while vocally “worrying” that the town’s needs were cutting into her family time with Marc. In an April interview with the Cupid’s Bow Clarion, Mayor Truitt expressed his gratitude for the support of his wife and grown children, subtly undermining Becca by saying he couldn’t imagine how difficult the job would be for a single parent.

In response, Becca had reminded everyone that Sheriff Cole Trent, the best sheriff in three generations, did his job successfully while raising two daughters alone. Of course, his circumstances had recently changed, now that he’d met and married Kate Sullivan, but Becca’s point had been made.

“You’re taking this remarkably well,” Hadley said, her tone admiring. “I was so mad that on the drive over here, I was imagining far-fetched schemes to have Truitt disgraced. One of them involved costumes and code words and his ending up in a South American prison.”

Becca shook her head at the younger woman. She’d wanted the librarian on her campaign because Hadley was bright and creative, but sometimes her imagination went to weird places. “We don’t need elaborate schemes—”

“Code names could be fun,” Sierra said.

“—when we have talent and skill,” Becca finished. “Truitt is shortsighted. He can create unnecessary obstacles, but I’ll look twice as good to voters when I overcome all of them.”

Sierra tapped her index finger against her chin. “Only if the general populace knows about the behind-the-scenes obstacles. If you talk about problems that crop up, you risk sounding whiny. But the rest of us can strategically spread the word. Manuel and I make all kinds of small talk with our patients while trying to distract them from the pain of their workouts. And Kate’s grandmother Joan can casually mention your committee progress at her quilting club and weekly senior-center poker games.”

Becca nodded, although she temporarily lost her train of thought when she heard a vehicle engine outside.

Hadley cocked her head, her expression shrewd. “Everything okay? That’s the third time tonight you’ve tensed when a car passed by.”

“It is?” Damn. Becca had impressed her friends by being unfazed by Mayor Truitt’s shenanigans, yet she was as high-strung as a horse during a thunderstorm when it came to the idea of her new tenant returning.

True to his word, Sawyer had been gone when she got up this morning. She had no idea when to expect him back—or if she’d even encounter him, given his private access to the attic. The big problem was that she hadn’t informed the other two women of his presence. Earlier, she’d almost told them that she’d rented the room, but realized they’d ask to whom. She’d balked at admitting it was Hadley’s “hot cowboy in the tight jeans.”

Better get it over with it. This was Cupid’s Bow. She was lucky they hadn’t heard about Sawyer already.

Sierra laughed. “She’s probably just listening for Marc to come home and you’ve found some way to turn it into a mystery.”

“Actually, I was listening for my new tenant.” Becca stood, giving the explanation casually as she carried their empty snack tray toward the kitchen. “I finally rented out that attic apartment. I told him he was welcome to use my kitchen for dinner, but I’m not sure when—or if—he’ll be in tonight.”

Both women were right on her heels as she refilled the platter with cheese, crackers and grapes.

“He?” Sierra asked. “Somehow I always imagined you with a female roommate.”

Me and you both, sister. “Maybe I’ll rent to a woman next. He won’t be here long.” Just a few weeks...although if she stayed this antsy the entire time, it was going to feel like a lot more.

“Who is he?” Hadley asked.

“A friend of Brody Davenport’s. He’s going to help with the centennial trail ride, and in the meantime he’s writing some travel articles about—”

“Whoa!” Hadley’s dark eyes were huge. “You don’t mean the guy who was with Brody yesterday at The Smoky Pig?”

“Um, yeah.” Becca cleared her throat. “That’s him. Sawyer.”

“I can’t believe your luck!” Hadley said.

Frowning, Sierra leaned on the kitchen counter. “I’m not sure if this is good luck.”

“Are you kidding me?” Hadley demanded. “She’s got the hottest cowboy since your man living under her roof.”

Sierra smiled faintly at the reference to her boyfriend, Jarrett, but her tone remained wary. “You guys know I love my adopted hometown.” She’d moved to Cupid’s Bow from Dallas almost a year ago. “But people here can be a little...old-fashioned in their thinking. The worst of them question whether a woman can do the job of mayor—which, hell, yes—and even the well-meaning worry about her juggling the demands with being a single mom. How is it going to look that said single mom is shacking up with—”

“Hey!” Becca objected.

Sierra waved her hand in an impatient gesture. “I’m not implying a damn thing. But you know how gossip flows in this town.”

Faster than champagne at an open-bar wedding.

“Well, then you should introduce him to me,” Hadley suggested with a cheeky grin. “If he and I are dating, it removes you from any speculation.”

Sierra snorted. “Way to take one for the team.”

“Okay, I’m not subtle,” Hadley admitted, “but we don’t all have gorgeous ranchers in our lives.”

Sierra grinned. “Jarrett is gorgeous. And sweet. And more sensitive than he wants anyone to know.” Her expression glowed. Witnesses would be able to tell from twenty paces that she was in love.

Had Becca looked like that in the early years of her marriage? When she was the happiest she’d ever been and fully expected that happiness to last the rest of her life? She drained her glass, trying not to feel bitter as she listened to Sierra joke about Jarrett’s latest attempts to get her to try camping.

“He knows I’m not outdoorsy,” Sierra was saying, “but the idea of cuddling in a sleeping bag with him does have merit.”

“Aren’t you going on the centennial trail ride?” Hadley asked.

“Nope. I’m all for celebrating the town’s big anniversary, but I’m not a native. I’ll celebrate from indoors with cake. And air-conditioning.” She checked her watch. “Speaking of Jarrett... I told him I might be home early enough for us to watch a movie.”

“A movie, huh?” Hadley smirked. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Smart-ass.” Sierra lightly shoved the other woman’s shoulder. “How would I know what the kids are calling it? I’m older than you are.”

As the only woman over thirty in the room, Becca rolled her eyes. “Neither of you are allowed to use the word old.”

“You’re not much older than we are, but you’re definitely wiser,” Sierra said. “One of many reasons why you’ll make a great mayor. Do you want to work on revamping the celebration budget? I can text Jarrett that I’ll be late.”

“Thanks, but no. You go home to your rancher, and let me crunch the numbers.” The funny thing about Truitt trying to rattle her with a reduced budget was that nothing he threw at her could be as big a shock as her husband leaving and Becca suddenly finding herself the head of a single-income family. Before that were the years she’d tried to cobble together a grocery budget for a large family out of spare change from the sofa cushions and her brother’s lawn-mowing money. Making do with less was her entire wheelhouse. “I’ll call you guys this week after I’ve done some math.”

Hadley grimaced. “Not to be an English-major cliché, but count me out. Slogans and speeches, I’ve got your back. Math? You’re on your own, madam mayor.”

As Sierra, who had a head for numbers, heckled the brunette about passing up an opportunity to improve her skills, they gathered up their purses and put on their previously discarded shoes. Then they said good-night, leaving Becca in the suddenly still house. She stayed so busy with Marc and her community activities that the peace and quiet was almost startling.

And then the phone rang.

My fault for not appreciating the silence while I had it. She picked up the cordless phone from the kitchen counter. “Hello.”

“Rebecca?”

Becca flinched. “Mother?” Had something happened to one of her brothers or sisters? It was difficult to imagine anything short of an emergency prompting Odette to call. Becca could count on her fingers the number of times they’d spoken since she left home. Her dad’s funeral, her sister’s wedding...the wheedling phone calls when Odette realized her late brother-in-law had left Becca all his money. When Becca had been pregnant with Marc, she’d reached out to her mother, but Odette had refused to take her calls, still holding a bitter grudge because her oldest child had eloped. “What’s wrong?”

Her mother sniffed. “Does something have to be wrong for me to miss my firstborn?”

Concern for her siblings dissipated, suspicion filling the vacancy. Her mother had alternately relied on her and resented her over the years, but they’d never been close. “The last time you ‘missed’ me, it was because you’d run through the bulk of Daddy’s life insurance settlement and wanted money.”

“Rebecca Ruth, I did not raise you to be disrespectful. And taking care of children is not cheap.”

What children? Everett drove 18-wheelers now, earning a living the same way their father had, Courtney was married in Oklahoma and Becca’s twin brothers, Sean and Shane, ran their own auto body repair and paint shop. Only eighteen-year-old Molly still lived at home. There were moments Becca suffered pangs of guilt for not maintaining a relationship with her little sister, but the age gap between them didn’t leave them with much in common.

Is that the real reason you haven’t made more of an effort? Or are you just selfishly reveling in your freedom? Becca had given so much of herself to her siblings for so long that her relationship with her family had felt parasitic by the time she left home. Was it selfish to distance herself from them, or simply an act of self-preservation?

Even these few moments on the phone with her mother were draining her. She sagged into a kitchen chair. “You’re not much older than we are,” Sierra had said. But sometimes Becca felt ancient. Being forced into a caretaker role at four years old aged a woman before her time.

“I’ve had a long day,” Becca said. “How about we get straight to the reason you called?” She spared a glance at the digital clock above the stainless steel stove. Would she have enough time to squeeze in a bubble bath before the Whittmeyers brought Marc home? But then her mind strayed to Sawyer and when he might return. The idea of being naked except for a layer of scented bubbles with the cowboy in the house made her feel oddly vulnerable. That’s ridiculous. Are you planning not to bathe or change clothes while he’s staying here? Still...

“It’s about your sister,” Odette said with an aggrieved sigh. “Molly’s been out of high school since January, and all she’s managed to do is get fired from three jobs and date two inappropriate men. The one who just dumped her is almost forty! Bet she’ll go running back to him if he calls. She did last time.”

Becca’s stomach clenched, regret burning like an ulcer. Molly had always had good grades, nearly as good as Beccca’s had been, and she’d earned enough credits to graduate a semester early. Maybe if we’d kept in better touch, I could have helped her develop some ambition for college. Or for anything. Knowing Odette, Becca guessed she’d been leaning on her youngest as live-in help, so why would she foster Molly’s desire to leave?

It sounded as if mother and teen weren’t getting along. On the one hand, discord between them might finally motivate Molly to seek greener pastures. But Becca wanted to see her sister in community college or IT courses or dental hygienist school—something productive—not shacked up with a man twice her age because she didn’t have the income to live on her own.

“She’s impossible,” Odette complained. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do with her.”

Parent her. But there was no point in saying that. For all that Odette had given birth to six of them, she’d never been overly invested in raising children. In fact, Becca was almost surprised her mother even cared enough to seek guidance over Molly’s behavior. “Have you talked to Courtney to get her input?” Becca’s second-youngest sibling knew Molly a lot better than she did.

“The situation is beyond ‘input.’”

“But... I thought you were calling to ask my advice?”

“Typical. You’re hoping to mumble a few parenting tips, then wash your hands of us. Is that it?”

The seething accusation in her mother’s voice might have wounded Becca if she hadn’t built up an immunity over the years. Odette had used the same tone when she’d labeled Becca a spoiled ingrate for going away to college when her family needed her. She’d used it when she asserted that Becca had eloped out of spite—never mind that it had been a financial decision—and again when Becca had refused to turn over her inheritance from her uncle. Odette had called her a heartless miser who’d let her family starve rather than share her windfall.

“I don’t need advice,” her mother said now. “I need you to look after your sister.”

“No.” The rush of anger was dizzying, and Becca grasped the edge of the table as her blood pressure soared. “I’m not your unpaid babysitter anymore. I’m a grown woman with my own child and a mayoral campaign who—”

“I bet you have all those Cupid’s Bow voters conned into believing you value family.”

Becca had too much self-control to hang up on anyone...but just barely. “If you value family, talk to your daughter. Molly’s young. There’s time for her to get her life on track before she makes an irreparable mistake.”

“You be sure to tell her that when she gets there.”

“When she gets here?” Becca echoed, praying she’d heard wrong.

“I was calling as a courtesy. She’s probably on a bus by now. Hateful girl told me to go to hell, declared she was moving in with you, and stormed out. The two of you should get along great.” And with that, her mother disconnected.

Becca sat frozen, barely registering the unpleasant buzz of the dial tone. Was Molly really coming here, or had she given Becca’s name as a decoy because she didn’t want their mother to know where to find her? Considering how long it had been since the two sisters had spoken, it seemed more likely that Molly would crash with a friend or one of those “inappropriate men” Odette had mentioned.

The sound of a vehicle in the driveway finally spurred Becca into motion. She put the phone back on its charger cradle and went to look out the window, expecting to see Sawyer. Despite her conflicted feelings about the man, at the moment she’d welcome a distraction. But it was the Whittmeyers.

She walked out barefoot to meet them. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour at least,” she told her son as he hopped out of the minivan.

Lyndsay Whittmeyer rolled down her window, her Texas-sized blond curls filling the frame. “The movie was sold out, so we drove to Turtle for a round of minigolf and then brought him back.”

“It’s probably just as well,” Becca said. “Now he can get plenty of rest before his game in the morning.” They were scheduled to play at nine, which meant arriving at the soccer fields by eight thirty.

“Kick the other team’s butts,” Kenny called from inside the vehicle.

Marc laughed even as he cast a cautious look at Becca to make sure she didn’t object to butts. Not tonight, kiddo. Between Mayor Truitt’s pettiness and having to talk to her mother, Becca found her mental vocabulary was a bit more colorful than usual.

She was making sure her son had remembered to thank the Whittmeyers for taking him along when a taxi pulled up behind them, blocking their exit from the driveway. For years, there hadn’t been any cab service in Cupid’s Bow, but Arnie Richmond had decided he could make good money driving inebriated patrons home from the local bars on the weekends. Had Sawyer and Brody gone out drinking?

But it wasn’t the tall cowboy who climbed out of the back seat. A curvy redhead emerged, barely topping five foot three in her boots. She glanced around nervously as Arnie popped open the truck, but then she locked gazes with Becca and smiled.

Becca blinked. “Molly?” The young woman might not have gotten much taller since they’d last seen each other, but she’d definitely grown up. The interior light from the cab showed that the tips of her sister’s layered bob were streaked magenta and electric blue. And she filled out her black halter top in a very adult way.

Molly took a gigantic camo duffel bag from Arnie, handing him a crumpled wad of bills in exchange, then turned back to Becca. “Hiya, sis. Long time no see.”

Chapter Five

Becca felt dazed, moving on autopilot as she waved goodbye to the Whittmeyers and ushered her sister up the porch steps. She managed an absent “You remember your aunt Molly?” to Marc, even though she doubted he would. It seemed only yesterday that Becca had been applying bandages to Molly’s scraped up, preschool knees. Now her sister was a woman in painted-on jeans and high-heeled boots.

“You look...good,” Becca said diplomatically. Beneath the foyer chandelier, her sister’s heavy-handed makeup looked a little garish, but the teenager was still beautiful. Besides, Becca had too much guilt over their estranged relationship to open with criticism.

“Mama always said I look like you. The redhead part, maybe.” Molly’s laugh was self-conscious. “Definitely not the height.” She dug inside her purse and pulled out a green pack of bubble gum. “Want one?” she offered Marc, as she unwrapped a piece for herself.

He nodded eagerly.

“You okay with sour apple?” she asked. “I’ve also got grape, watermelon and fruit pun—”

“I’m sure sour apple will be fine,” Becca said. “Marc, why don’t you put on your pajamas and watch a DVD in my room? I need a few minutes to catch up with Aunt Molly.”

“’Kay, Mama. Thanks for the gum.”

“Sure thing, kid.” As he took off toward the staircase, Molly smiled after him. “He’s cute. I always wanted a little brother. Thought it might be fun not to be the baby of the family.”

Being the oldest was no picnic, either. “You’re definitely not a baby anymore. You’re a grown woman who gets to make adult choices. Like leaving home, apparently.”

Molly’s face flushed. “About that...”

“Odette only called fifteen minutes ago. The bus must have made good time.”

“I decided to save the money I would’ve spent on the ticket and bummed a ride from a couple of guys headed in this general vicinity. We parted ways at a bar just outside town.”

“Please tell me these were guys you knew.” Becca had an appalling mental image of her sister hitchhiking on the freeway.

“Uh, it was more like a friend-of-a-friend thing,” she said evasively. “But since I’m not twenty-one, I couldn’t go into the bar for dinner. You got anything to eat?”

“Come on, I’ll fix you a sandwich.”

Molly followed slowly, studying her surroundings. “This place sure looks different than back home.” There was an edge to her voice. Jealousy? Disapproval? Had she subscribed to Odette’s claims that Becca should be doing more to financially assist her family? “Is there a guest room?”

What was Molly’s backup plan in case there wasn’t—sleeping on the sofa? “Yes.”

Her sister looked away, blowing a green bubble that popped loudly. “I know you and I don’t talk much, but I can’t afford to get all the way to Oklahoma to stay with Courtney. Can I stay here?”

The inevitable question. Becca didn’t want to think about where Molly would end up if she said no. “You can stay. But there are a few house rules and conditions.”

Molly’s gaze hardened. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”

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