Книга - The Maverick

The Maverick
Carrie Alexander








To this day, Luke didn’t know which hurt more—leaving Sophie or loving Sophie


But what if he’d been wrong about her? What if he’d been wrong to believe in secondhand gossip instead of the heart-and-guts proof of their actual relationship?

No. There was evidence, the kind she couldn’t hide.

Luke coughed. “I hear you’ve got a kid.”

The car shot dangerously fast around one of the switchback curves. She slammed her foot on the brake, sending the back end fishtailing into the soft shoulder.

“Take it easy,” Luke said just before he was flung across the seat. By the time he’d awkwardly righted himself, pushing up with hands cuffed behind his back, she’d gotten the car under control and was proceeding as if he hadn’t spoken.

“A boy,” he said.

Her fingers clenched on the wheel. “Let’s keep this strictly business.”

“Not possible. You and I will never be strictly business.”

“Fourteen years without contact certainly indicates otherwise.”

“Fourteen years without contact only means that we both went cold turkey. Now that I’m back…”


Dear Reader,

After writing thirteen books for Harlequin, I’m thrilled to be making my Superromance debut this month with The Maverick. It’s a reunion story, it’s a bad boy (and girl!) story, it’s even a secret baby story…although this time the “baby” happens to be a moody thirteen-year-old named Joe. Telling Luke and Sophie’s story was, by turns, a fun, emotional, exciting and even wrenching experience.

Thanks must go to The TIBS and John, my online buddy group, who provided support, sharpened my wits, listened to my gripes, answered my stupid questions at 2:00 a.m. and made me laugh every single day. And especially to you, the reader, for welcoming me to the wonderful world of Superromance by reading this book.

Please let me know how you like it! You may write to me in care of Harlequin, or via e-mail by going to www.eHarlequin.com or www.superauthors.com.

Cheers,

Carrie Alexander




The Maverick

Carrie Alexander





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For the scholar and the woodsman, my mom and dad, who

taught me the love of books and the benefits of hard work.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


THE SILVER-AND-BLACK MOTORCYCLE zipped through downtown Treetop, Wyoming, at fifteen miles above the speed limit. Deputy Sophie Ryan was so startled she flinched, spilling her coffee and dropping her car keys. From Sophie’s vantage point in the parking lot of the True Brew coffeehouse, she shouldn’t have been able to recognize the driver.

Yet she was afraid that she had.

Maverick. The name flashed through her like lightning—as shocking and electric as the man himself.

The presence of Luke Salinger in Treetop—after fourteen years!—was too much to accept all at once. Sophie didn’t want him here. She truly didn’t. But there was no denying that she was transfixed by the possibility. Steaming latte soaked the front of her police uniform, and she was too stunned to feel it.

Squeezing the half-empty foam cup, she stared blankly after the speeding motorcycle. Even though Range Street had returned to its usual early-morning tranquility, the air seemed to reverberate with the bike’s annoying buzz and hot blue exhaust fumes. Sophie shuddered. Every self-protective sense that she’d honed in the years since Luke’s departure went on red alert.

Her mind raced. Try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself that some other member of the defunct Mustangs motorcycle gang had chosen to take a joyride through town for old time’s sake.

For one thing, it was only quarter to eight. That let out the likeliest candidate, Damon “Demon” Bradshaw, who rarely rolled out of bed to open his run-down bike shop before noon.

The motorcycle in question had been black and chrome, sleek, stylish, fast. Snake Carson’s bike was a big, ugly chopper that sounded like a dump truck. And ever since Skooch Haas had found religion he’d sooner wear a dress to bible school than break the speed limit.

While the driver had been little more than a blur, Sophie’s observation of details was keen. She’d seen enough to identify dark wavy hair, whipped by the wind since it was a little too long to be reputable, a possible Mustangs tattoo on the left biceps, and a long, lean body clad in denim and brown leather. Which meant she could also eliminate Punch Fiorelli, who’d gained fifty pounds in the past decade, and Bronc Lemmons, who was in the hospital, sick and bald as a colicky baby from his second round of chemotherapy.

Sophie took a shaky breath. Other than the deceased and the incarcerated, that left one member of the Mustangs unaccounted for. And he happened to be the only man on earth for whom she’d never been able to rationalize—or completely stifle—her tangled, tumultuous feelings.

“Maverick,” she said through her teeth, remembering with a spurt of pain a time when he’d left her scared, alone and, as she’d soon learned, pregnant. She clenched her fist. The last of the coffee gushed from the cup in a hot brown waterfall.

Luke Salinger was back in Treetop, and the town would likely be the worse for it.

There was no question that Sophie’s stable life had just been turned upside down.

It was a minute before she came back to herself with a snap. Briskly she brushed at her stained uniform shirt, disgusted with her stricken reaction. One glimpse of Luke “Maverick” Salinger and her composure had cracked like the flimsy foam cup, releasing such a torrent of memory she’d been rendered mute and motionless. She would have to do better than that if she hoped to protect her family and hard-won reputation from the resurrection of the old scandal.

Nor could she continue to stand idly by while Luke flouted the speed limit. She was the only sheriff’s deputy on patrol this morning, and, speeding ticket aside, there were those fourteen-year-old charges of arson, vandalism and B & E still lingering on the books….

It was up to Sophie to apprehend Luke Salinger. She reached for her fallen keys. How ironic.

Kelsey Carson stepped out of the side door of the True Brew, her cheeks pink and glossy from the steam of the espresso machine. “Whoa. That was so cool,” she said. Her butter-blond ponytail swung as she scanned the empty street. “Who was he? I saw him zoom by from the kitchen window. Sweeet!”

Sophie straightened, keys in hand. Her law enforcement training demanded she give an impromptu lecture reminding the teenager that breaking the speed limit was dangerous, not cool. As she spoke, she couldn’t help remembering the days when she’d been as pretend-tough, rebellious and impressionable as sixteen-year-old Kelsey. She’d thought that Luke was as sweet as apple pie à la mode, and ten times as cool.

Kelsey wasn’t listening anyway. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But who is that guy?”

Sophie grimaced. “I’m not sure, but I do know that he just broke the law.”

“Hmm.” Kelsey slid her hands into the pockets of her droopy camouflage pants and turned a measuring stare on Sophie. The gold ring that pierced her eyebrow winked in the sunshine. “He seemed familiar. Made me think of the photos of you and my dad and the rest of the Mustangs. From the old days.”

Sophie stiffened. If even Kelsey—who’d been a toddler at the time—could recognize the marauding motorcyclist for what he was, it wouldn’t be long before news of Maverick’s return hit Treetop like an earthquake. Old rumors would rumble. Under the pressure, Sophie’s good reputation would crack wide open. By the end of the day, the gossips would be in cataclysmic ecstasy.

“But he was too buff.” Kelsey frowned. “No way was he my dad’s age.”

“Well, don’t forget I’m nearly your dad’s age,” Sophie said, and Kelsey looked at her with blank incomprehension, making her feel every day of her thirty-one years. “Okay, I’ve got to go.” She handed the teenager the mangled cup.

Kelsey’s eyes sharpened. “Are you gonna arrest him?”

“We’ll see.” Sophie moved brusquely to her patrol car. She gunned the engine, the back tires spitting pebbles and dirt as the car sped out of the lot. From somewhere behind came Kelsey’s excited whoop as she ran back into the coffeehouse to spill the beans.

“Nuts.” Sophie buckled her seat belt one-handed, squinting into the sunshine splashed across the blacktop at the eastern end of Range Street. “Real smooth, Deputy Ryan.” She snatched her sunglasses off the visor, keeping to the speed limit until she reached the outskirts of town, where she stepped up the pace. The motorcycle was long gone, but it wouldn’t take much of an investigation to turn it up. She knew how Luke thought.

Or so she’d once believed.

Don’t think about it. She sandbagged the rush of returning images. You’re on the job. No time for Memory Lane.

She was fairly certain that if he’d just arrived in Treetop he wouldn’t head directly out to the family ranch, where his older brother, sister-in-law and grandmother, Mary Lucas—the matriarch who presided over the conjoined Lucas and Salinger families—still lived. Luke’s mother had died the year before he left; his father, Stephen Salinger, handled the family finances out of Laramie, the state’s capital city. After all this time, Luke’s welcome home might be as turbulent as Sophie’s churning emotions.

She swallowed, aware of a swiftly rising apprehension that had set her nerves on razor edge. Normally she was completely calm and levelheaded on duty, even in the few crisis situations she’d handled. It would be prudent to consider her emotional involvement in this particular case before charging forward like Colonel Custer at the Little Bighorn. The comparison was apt. Her history with Luke was nearly as devastating.

She cast a doubtful glance at the police radio, presently broadcasting the usual soothing static that meant there was nothing happening in Treetop that needed her attention. If she called into the station and requested aid—

Hell, no. Sophie tightened her fingers on the steering wheel, the highway smoothly unreeling beneath the patrol car’s tires. Sheriff Ed Warren would have a good belly laugh at her expense if it turned out that the renegade motorcyclist wasn’t Luke Salinger at all and she’d asked for backup to write a measly speeding citation. She got enough grief from her boss as it was without handing him further ammunition to question her competency.

Sophie gritted her teeth. She’d bring in Maverick on her own. Call it payoff.

The low-slung cedar roof of the Thunderhead Saloon caught her eye. She slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, making a sloppy turn into the parking lot as the patrol car bumped on and off the crumbling curb. The saloon didn’t open till later, but the Thunderhead’s grill did a brisk morning business serving massive breakfasts of fried eggs, steak and short stacks to truckers and area ranchers. She’d likely find Punch—one of the former Mustangs—behind the griddle, flipping flapjacks and pinching the waitress’s bottoms. If he’d come this way, Luke might have stopped by to say hello.

Wagon wheels framed the walkway into the Thunderhead, the weathered spokes softened by the larkspur, oxeye daisies and purple asters that were among Theresa Fiorelli’s recent improvements to the family business. The interior was dark and masculine, but freshly scented with a lemony polish that had the wooden floors, walls and furnishings gleaming like the burnished hide of a bay quarter horse. More of Theresa’s handiwork. Before she’d swooped in with ideas about spiffy new decor, talent shows and karaoke nights, the business had been strictly utilitarian.

Sophie took off her sunglasses and went directly to the kitchen with a token wave at the bustling waitresses. Theresa was working the griddle, frowning in concentration as she poured precise dollops of batter in ruler-straight rows. She paused briefly to lift an eyebrow at Sophie. “Deputy.”

“Morning,” Sophie said, glancing around the immaculate kitchen. The stainless steel appliances shone like the chrome on Maverick’s bike. “Punch isn’t here?”

Theresa’s frown deepened. “You just missed him. Some hooligan in leather busted in—”

Sophie’s head snapped around.

“—and what with all the hollering and back-slapping you’d think this was a locker room.” Theresa wiped her hands on her apron, most of her attention focused on the problem of a malformed blueberry flapjack. She was a perfectionist who was still adjusting to her recent elevation from waitress to wife of the proprietor. “We’ve got six orders up and Punch decides to take a motorcycle ride, of all things.” The griddle sizzled as she scraped away the imperfect flapjack, pausing briefly to wave the gluey spatula at Sophie. “What is it with men, anyhow?”

“Darned if I know.” Sophie found herself grinning. “I live with two of ’em and don’t have a clue about how their brains work.”

“You tell it, sister,” said Ellen Molitor, a rangy, big-boned waitress with an incongruous snub nose. She dumped a tray full of dirty dishes near the sink with a clatter and ran a hand through her frazzled graying hair. The motion made the third button on her uniform blouse pop open. Ellen looked down into her meager cleavage and shrugged. “Tips,” she explained to Sophie with a wink. “They’re good for tips.” She chuckled. “Men, I mean.”

“Where’s your hair net?” Theresa’s voice was sharp.

“Lookee you.” Ellen grabbed an order of scrambled eggs and a slab of ham so big it hung off the edge of the plate and sashayed out of the kitchen, her flat behind swinging like a cow bell. “Miss Fancypants,” she shot over her shoulder.

Theresa sputtered.

“Which direction did they take?” Sophie asked hastily, not wanting to be caught up in kitchen politics. “Punch and Mav—er, this other guy?”

Biting her lip as she began carefully flipping the flapjacks, Theresa could do no more than bob her head in a vaguely easterly direction. When one of her perfect creations landed on another in a gloppy mess, Sophie slipped out of the kitchen before she took the blame.

Ellen waylaid her near the door. “Maverick’s back, you know, Soph.” She squeezed the deputy’s arm. “I thought I should warn you.”

“I know.” Sophie felt the need to blink. “I already saw him.”

“He still looks good. Real good.”

Sophie blinked again. Must be something in her eye. “He was going too fast for me to tell.”

Ellen peered beneath the brim of Sophie’s taupe trooper hat. They’d once worked together, sharing bad tips, sore feet and tales of woe. “You’re not carrying a torch, are you, hon?”

“Of course not!”

“You can admit it if you are.” Ellen rested the tray on her hip and patted the younger woman’s arm. “We’ve all been there. Even when a man’s no good, it’s awful hard to let go.”

No matter how many times Sophie blinked, moisture continued to well in her eyes. Damn that Maverick, she thought, trying to use the biker-gang nickname as a sobering slap in the face. She had to stay tough and mean, not surrender to misbegotten sentimentality. Think of Joey. Think of what sort of trouble Luke’s return could cause for your son.

“It’s been fourteen years, Ellie. My relationship with Luke was over long ago.” Sophie closed her eyes and swallowed. “Frankly, I’d hoped never to see him again.”

“If it were me, I might be sorta—” Ellen gave her shoulders a little wiggle “—excited that he was back. I reckon that man’s brand lasts a long time. Even longer than fourteen years.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sophie said, although she knew very well that some brands were permanent. Defiantly she thrust up her naked ring finger. “I’ve never been branded, so to speak.”

“I wasn’t necessarily speaking of wedding rings.” Ignoring a customer’s call for more coffee, Ellen bent slightly to search Sophie’s eyes. The waitress must have seen something Sophie hadn’t wanted to reveal, because she nodded knowingly and said, “Yep, there are brands that last a whole lot longer than church vows.” She snorted. “And since I’ve been divorced twice, who’d know better ’n me? All the same, if my first love came around to visit, I believe I might give it another try. First love goes the deepest, doesn’t it?”

Sophie averted her gaze. Branded. By God, she was not branded. It wasn’t as if she’d been pining after Luke like some wimpy dishrag of a woman. She’d dated plenty of other men. Or enough, anyway. Only once had she come close to marriage—and that had been ten years ago when she’d been feeling guilty for depriving her son of a father figure.

So, yeah, she’d admit to a certain reluctance to trust men. Which was normal, given her reality. They’d been hard, the lessons that Luke—and others—had taught her. She’d struggled. She’d fought. And she’d survived.

She certainly did not need a man to complete her. Luke Salinger least of all.

Almost entirely on her own, she’d worked her way up from a string of low-paying jobs to a two-year stint as one of the Thunderhead’s waitresses, then on to her law enforcement training and the job with the Treetop Sheriff’s Department. She’d also raised a fine son—no thanks to anyone named Salinger.

At that, speculation on how Luke’s brother, Heath, would react to Luke’s return made a shudder run through her body. Trouble was brewing, sure as shootin’.

At least she was dry-eyed now. Dry-eyed and loaded for bear, as her father would say. She gave Ellen a tight smile and swept out of the restaurant, jamming her sunglasses back in place. Within the day, Luke would be locked up where he belonged and the whole town could gossip to their heart’s content about the welcome that Sophie Ryan had given him.

Reluctantly, self-consciously, she touched her backside before climbing into the car. Branded? Branded, her…her…her foot!

Demon Bradshaw’s business, a grungy motorcycle shop, was Sophie’s next stop, half a mile farther down the state highway that bypassed the small but bustling town of Treetop. She didn’t even have to get out of the car. One turn around the swaybacked shack that housed the shop and the sorry excuse for a log cabin out back was enough to see that neither Demon nor his old lady had stirred. Demon’s Harley was parked near the porch, the only thing at the Bradshaw place that was well cared for. Earlier that morning one of Sophie’s fellow deputies had passed the word that there’d been a major kegger at the Jackpine Lake campground last night. It was safe to assume that Treetop’s diehard partyers were still in bed, sleeping another one off.

Sophie knew where to go next. If Maverick and Punch were on an “auld lang syne” bike ride, they’d surely take the switchback, a blacktop county road that snaked upward in a series of sweet curves, rising in elevation until it reached a summit that offered one of the best views in the state. From an altitude of eight thousand feet, the town of Treetop would be a doll’s village nestled in the valley below, most of it screened by the brushy evergreens that crowded the hillsides. Luke would get a grand overview of the valley, the river, and, in the far distance, the rangelands of the family ranch he’d chosen to abandon.

If he cared enough to revisit what he’d abandoned, that was.

Sophie blinked again behind her dark lenses. It was natural to get a little emotional about Luke’s return. He’d been her first love. Her greatest love, to be completely honest. That didn’t mean she had to forgive and forget.

She’d tried to forgive him for leaving her, especially once she’d matured enough to understand that he’d been nearly as young, reckless and shortsighted as she. But she’d never been able to forget—not what he’d meant to her, nor what he’d done to her.

“And I won’t forget,” she whispered, going on automatic as she steered the car around the curves of a road she still knew better than the back of Luke’s hand.

Luke’s hand. A vivid memory flared—the day that Luke, then only eighteen, had first let her drive his motorcycle, his hands covering hers on the grips as their bodies pressed close, the bike’s speed and power vibrating through every inch of her as they climbed the scenic switchback.

She’d been sixteen and fresh out of a foster home, living with her neglectful father again, acting out her anger and rebellion, although deep inside what she’d really craved was to find a place for herself that felt safe. Luke had seemed like a god to her then—smart, handsome, filled with the kind of heat and energy and passion that lit up everything and everyone near him. He’d illuminated her drab life, chased away the shadows.

Hovering at the fringes of the ragtag band of rowdy young men who’d formed the Mustangs, she’d begun to crave Luke even more than safety. And eventually he’d regarded her with something other than a casual friendship. During her seventeenth summer, his nineteenth, they’d fallen head over heels in love. He’d shown her all his secret places in the countryside, warmed her with his fervent dreams of their future. On a star-filled night they’d made love at a hidden mountain lake, and she’d finally understood what it meant to be loved, cherished…and safe. In Luke’s arms, she’d finally felt safe.

Ah, the folly and blind passion of youth.

Despite her attempt at sarcasm, Sophie saw the fawn-colored hills through a haze of tears. She flipped off her glasses and swiped at her eyes. It would be such a relief to put the past out of her mind forever, but she couldn’t let herself do it. She needed to remember—to remember everything. That was what would give her the strength to keep Joey safe and close.

Another irony: Safety was once again what Sophie valued most.

But this time she wouldn’t let Luke divert her purpose.

The resolution sounded reasonable enough. But when she rounded another of the switchbacks and sighted two motorcycles not far ahead, her unruly heart gave an instinctive lurch of recognition. Perhaps even of pleasure.

Maverick’s back.

She took up the radio mike and called in her position. She switched on the siren. The lead motorcycle— Luke’s—sped up for just a moment, then gradually slowed. Punch had already pulled over and was taking off his helmet as Sophie slowed to park on the shoulder, fifty feet back. Ordinarily, she’d play it cautious when confronting two bikers, but these were guys she knew. One she trusted. She stepped out and called to Punch, telling him to move away from his bike and wait by her car. It wasn’t a by-the-book procedure, but she didn’t have to worry about turning her back on Punch. It was the long slow walk over to Luke’s bike that she dreaded, suffering his intense stare.

He didn’t turn to look as she moved away from her vehicle. Did he know it was her? Had Punch already told him about her? Her stomach was alive with the flutter of a hundred wings—moths to the flame. Although she couldn’t forget the searing pain of getting burned by Luke, she had no control over her fickle impulses either. The memory of what it had been like to have his arms around her was flooding back, drowning her resolve to be tough and mean and ultra-professional.

Damn you, Maverick, she thought, no longer certain that she meant it.

Her footsteps on the blacktop sounded like gunshots in the clear mountain air. Wind whistled through the twisted pines, catching at the curly wisps of her uncontrollable hair. Although Luke didn’t turn, she recognized the rearing-mustang tattoo on his tanned left biceps. It matched her own tattoo—the one that only Luke knew about.

Sophie licked her lips, her police training kicking in as her hand went automatically to the holstered sidearm hanging from her gun belt. As if a gun could protect her from the lethal Salinger charm!

“Sir,” she said. Her voice grated like pebbles under a boot heel; she swallowed and tried again. “Sir, I want you to step off the bike. I need to see your license, proof of insurance and regis—registra—tion…”

Her voice faded. Her vision blurred, her ears buzzed. Luke had swung his leg over the motorcycle and stood. He was taller than she remembered, more formidable. The shocking reality of his presence slammed into her with all the force of a runaway boulder tipped off the grandest of the Tetons. She could not believe that he was here. After all these years, he was standing right in front of her.

Then he turned to face her, and he was not at all the Luke Salinger she remembered.




CHAPTER TWO


IT’S THE EYES. Sophie’s stomach dropped. Such flat steel-blue eyes couldn’t belong to Luke Salinger. There was no fire, no spirit, no passion—only the cold-blooded stare, appraising her without a spark of recognition.

A silent cry ripped loose from the bonds of her tight control. What had happened to Maverick? Where was the man she’d once loved with all her heart?

Gone away, grown up, never coming back.

Her shock bottomed out. She realized that she’d been staring for too long and licked her dry lips. “Luke Salinger,” she said with no inflection and just a faint tremor.

He nodded.

Sophie felt disconnected from reality, as though she were weightless, as insubstantial as smoke. Yet Luke was the mystery here. She remembered a time when purpose had burned in his eyes, lighting them like a neon sign, charging himself and her and all the rest of the Mustangs with such an excess of energy that trouble was bound to follow.

The spark was gone. He was deadened.

Miserable but trying not to show it, she swiped her hand across her pants before extending her palm. “I need to see your license, registration and proof of insurance.”

He removed a flattened billfold from his back pocket and slipped the driver’s license from its plastic sleeve. Taking the card, she examined it carefully, her eyes flickering between Luke’s watchful gaze and the name and photo on the ID. The license had been issued in California. She read the address. Los Angeles? It wasn’t easy to imagine the Luke she used to know putting up with the plastic superficiality she imagined ran rampant on the coast. But then, this man was a stranger to her. For all she knew, the Luke who’d despised the greed of conspicuous consumption had become a status-conscious spendthrift who shopped Rodeo Drive and ate goat-cheese pizzas at a hundred bucks a pop.

Except that he didn’t look soft and pampered. He was tough, rugged, stringent.

Physically, he’d changed, but not by much. Although he hadn’t thickened the way most men did by their mid-thirties, he’d…hardened. The muscles in his arms and legs and the broad chest beneath an expensive but battered brown leather vest and white sleeveless T-shirt appeared to be as hard as iron. Forged in fire, she thought, glancing briefly into his face. Aside from the shock of his unrecognizable expression, he was as handsome as ever. Only now his skin was tanned and weathered, drawn tight over strong cheekbones and jaw. Not a single strand of gray had sprouted among the dark hair barely restrained by a blue bandanna.

The Luke Salinger she remembered had been more boy than man. That was no longer the case. But the old attraction trickling through her veins was terribly familiar.

Sophie cleared her throat, desperate to distract herself. “Please move away from the bike. Stop. Wait there for just a moment, please.” She stared at her feet as they turned and walked her back toward the patrol car without any conscience decision from her addled brain. Luke’s indifference flummoxed her. Even after fourteen years, was it possible for him to have completely forgotten her? The one thing Luke had never been was lukewarm.

Punch Fiorelli had been watching them, frowning. “Uh, say, Sophie?” Sheepishly he scrubbed a hand across his big, firm belly. “We weren’t going much past the speed limit. You wouldn’t give tickets to two old Mustangs, now, wouldja, honey?”

She said, “You’re in the clear, Punch,” and slumped behind the wheel of the black-and-tan patrol car, boneless as a jellyfish. It was a minute before she gathered herself together and examined the license with a more objective eye. Hesitating to call it in to the dispatcher, she tapped the laminated card against the steering wheel, watching through the windshield as Punch approached Luke and began talking, gesturing at her car. Luke shrugged, nodded. Punch slapped him hard between the shoulder blades, a slap that would have made most men flinch.

Luke didn’t waver. He was looking in Sophie’s direction. Between the distance and the glare of sunshine on the glass, he shouldn’t have been able to see her face very well. But she knew with a panicky certainty that he did see her. He saw inside her, to her dreams and fears and secrets. And he…

He didn’t care.

Her last shreds of hope, already as brown and brittle as fallen leaves, disintegrated into crumbled bits of nothing. Whatever had happened to change Luke into a stranger, it was clear now that his return had come too late for both of them.

Sophie closed her hand around his license and other papers and reached for the radio mike, intending to have him run through the computer for additional outstanding warrants. He’d changed immeasurably. It was possible that he was a fugitive wanted in six states other than Wyoming.



“YOU DO REALIZE that you were speeding when you drove through town,” Sophie said in her curiously toneless voice, tipping up her chin to glare at him from beneath the flat brim of her trooper hat. “I’m going to issue you a citation.”

“A fine welcome,” Luke said, flippant, uncaring.

Her eyes narrowed. “By your own choice.”

She was different…yet the same. Little Sophie Ryan, with the tough-girl attitude that would forever be betrayed by her Cupid’s-bow mouth, the girlish sweep of her lashes and rampant curls the color of butter-brickle ice cream. At the same time she was strangely alien to him in her police uniform with its stained shirtfront and the badge on the pocket and the holstered gun she kept touching as though it were a lucky rabbit’s foot.

Did he scare her?

The thought disturbed him. Her betrayal being what it was—a knife in the gut no matter how many years had passed—he still didn’t care to come across as the kind of man she had to fear. He knew Sophie’s heart. So tender and damaged. Intimidation wasn’t his game.

What was hers?

She licked her lips, a nervous reaction he remembered well. She’d licked her lips, her eyes like saucers, the day he’d asked if she wanted to take a ride on his bike. She’d been barely sixteen, too young and uncertain to be as jaded as she’d put on. Straight off, he’d seen beyond her cocky attitude to the wounded psyche of a girl who was as untethered and searching as he.

“Can you step over to the patrol car, sir?”

Punch seemed anxious. “Hey, now, Soph—”

“No problem,” Luke said, holding up his hands and walking away with Sophie cautiously trailing him. He couldn’t see her expression very well because of the hat, but he could feel the worry and confusion—and maybe attraction—emanating from her. He responded with equally mixed emotions in spite of their past, to such a degree he began to wonder if he’d sped through town in order to attract Deputy Ryan’s attention. Of course he hadn’t known she’d be on patrol, but just the same…

Apparently, a man could hope even when he knew there was no logic to it.

“Place your hands on the hood,” she directed. Her boot nudged his. “Spread ’em.”

Luke knew the stance. The command amused him, coming from Sophie’s baby-doll lips. Without even trying, he remembered the taste of her mouth, the velvet stroke of her tongue. The clarity of the memory was agonizing. Shouldn’t he have forgotten by now?

“What is this?” Punch blustered. “C’mon, you can’t—”

Luke chuckled mirthlessly. “Deputy Sophie’s arresting me, Punch. Don’t interrupt a woman at work.”

Sophie gave him an abrupt shove between the shoulder blades. “Funny guy,” she said, and started patting him down. She was efficient about it, but the effect her hands had on him as they ran over his body was anything but professional. Through his swift arousal, he felt her fingers slip into his back pocket. A small sound followed—the snick of his knife opening.

He looked over his shoulder. Sophie’s left hand tightened on the back of his belt as she held out the knife, the silver blade flashing in the sunshine. She hesitated for a moment, saying nothing, her eyes accusing him.

The corners of his mouth twitched at the thought of her considering him a dangerous character. “A trinket,” he said with a shrug.

She pocketed the knife. Gave him another shove. “I called in your license, Mr. Salinger. There are no outstanding out-of-state warrants on you.” The back of her hands ran lightly over his legs, down, then up the insides, skimming across his thighs. After an infinitesimal hesitation, she cupped his crotch, her fingers skimming for a weapon. The intimate touch lasted for only a split second, but in that one tick of a moment his response leapt at the speed of light. Fire shot to his groin, producing a slight twitch, a thickening rush of desire. She gave a small gasp and pulled her hand away, her cheeks flaring as pink as the cotton candy he’d once fed her at the county fair.

“Yeah, aside from the one nasty breaking and entering charge, I’ve been a very good boy.” His voice was rough, mocking, certain that Sophie’s reaction to his old arrest would be as cold as a bucket of ice water. He needed to douse the fire between them right now. Or, heaven help him, jail would seem like a reasonable alternative.

“You’re not getting off so easy this time,” she snapped with frigid precision. He silently complied when she jerked his arms behind his back and clamped a hard metal bracelet around his wrist. “You forget. There’s more than one charge. Add vandalism, arson and evading arrest and you’re looking at a nice stay in the state pen, Mr. Salinger.”

“Neither the Salingers nor the Lucases do hard time,” he pointed out with fake good humor, which seemed to make her even colder and angrier. “When push comes to shove, they bribe the judge.”

She yanked at his wrist and clicked the other handcuff into place. “Judge Cobb retired. We’ll see if Judge Entwhistle is as lenient.”

“Aw, Soph—handcuffs? Do you really need handcuffs?” Punch spread his upturned palms. “This is Maverick—you remember Maverick. Hell, you and him used to be—”

“Old news,” Sophie said. “If Mr. Salinger didn’t want to be arrested he shouldn’t have come back to a town where there are charges against him on the books. I’m just doing my job.”

“Man, when did you get to be such a hard-ass?” Punch complained. “Shucks, girl, you used to ride with the Mustangs! We don’t turn on one of our own.”

“All that was a long time ago,” Sophie said. She stole a quick look at Luke. “Things have changed.”

Not as much as either of them might have wanted. He thought of the fleeting touch of her hand between his legs. And his instantaneous reaction.

“Everything’s changed,” she added under her breath.

In the shadow of the hat brim, her eyes were large and liquid, betraying a modicum of shyness despite her position of authority. There was still a beguiling air of innocent femininity about her.

Only the appearance of it, Luke reminded himself, trying again to be ruthless.

He scowled, unable to reconcile his memories of the teenage Sophie with both the woman she was now and all that he’d been told of her since he’d skipped town. Fourteen years was too immense a span to leap when doubts were nipping at his heels.

One question was clanging inside his head. What if he’d been wrong about her?

Sophie read him his rights in a flattened, disaffected voice, then hustled him into the patrol car. Punch gave her a hard time, sputtering and complaining, looking ready to carry out his nickname. The burly Italian calmed down some when Luke asked him to look after the motorcycle, but he continued to glower at Sophie, muttering under his breath. She unconcernedly went about her job, slamming shut the back door and climbing behind the wheel. She swept off her hat, started the car and reached for the radio all at the same time, and was soon reporting her progress to the dispatcher as she spun the steering wheel one-handed. The tires squealed. She trod on the gas, aiming the car straight down the mountain.

Luke watched the scenery for a while, silent as a stone while he tried to work out the ramifications of his arrest on his unsuspecting family. Tough to concentrate on what would be a replay of the same old recriminations and accusations when Sophie was sitting a few feet away. His gaze kept straying to the curve of her fragile neck, framed by a crisp collar and the wild corkscrew curls that had come loose from her hair clip. She held her shoulders and head with a stiff military precision—no more broody teenage slouch. And she’d filled out some, was stronger and more substantial than the reed of a girl she’d been the last time he’d seen her. She’d become physically confident, he decided. Brisk and competent, certain enough of herself to handle a job that called for a typically male brand of aggression.

Little Sophie Ryan had truly become a cop, just as Heath had claimed. Luke shook his head in amazement, even though it might not be such a strange career choice when he considered her final gesture toward him.

He wasn’t especially worried about the old charges she’d arrested him for. In fact, he’d assumed that his grandmother had smoothed that over years ago. Not out of a particular concern for him, but to protect the precious family name. For all the affection between them, he’d never been as valuable to Mary Lucas as the family’s history, longevity and status, which she’d preserve at all costs.

Roughly fourteen years ago, he and a few of the Mustangs had broken into a lawyer’s office in Treetop. For Luke, the mission had justified the means. He’d been too narrowly focused to foresee how quickly the break-in would escalate into a free-for-all, particularly when his liquored-up friends were involved. Demon and Snake had started trashing the place—supposedly to cover their tracks. Luke had grabbed what he’d come for and hustled them out as quickly as he could. Too quickly, it had turned out, because he’d overlooked the lighted lamp that had fallen off the desk onto a sheaf of upended files. They’d been long gone before the fire had started.

Being young and stupid was no defense. He was guilty. No one would believe it now, but back then, as rebellious as he’d been, he’d intended to turn himself in after learning about the fire. All he’d wanted was to see Sophie first. To tell her that it would be okay, that she should stay strong and wait for him even if he was sent to jail.

He remembered driving to her dad’s dumpy trailer on what had turned out to be his last night in town. The crisp autumn air had been tinged with the scent of snow, and there had been a wildly romantic notion of inviting Sophie to run away with him floating around inside his head. The patrol car parked in the Ryan’s weed-choked driveway had stopped him like a brick wall.

First he thought that Sophie was merely being questioned. But the snatches of conversation he’d caught through the thin aluminum sides of the trailer seemed to tell a different tale. By all appearances, Luke’s girlfriend—loyal little Sophie—was ratting him out.

He’d let impulse take over, leaving Treetop in a fury so hot it had shriveled his breaking heart into a coal. That had always been his way—covering pain with burning anger. Learning the art of icy detachment had taken years.

In his early days on the road, when he had no idea where to go or what to do, a small part of him had clung to the hope that the situation wasn’t what it seemed. Sophie had been put into a no-win position—his fault all the way. But when he’d called the ranch, his older brother Heath had reported the ugly truth of Sophie’s actions. The word had spread throughout Treetop. To save her hide, Sophie Ryan had told Deputy Ed Warren everything she knew. As a result, charges were being brought against the Mustangs.

Given Luke’s culpability, he might have forgiven her that…if she hadn’t done worse. Again, Heath had been the reluctant messenger. It seemed that Sophie had not only betrayed Luke in spirit, she’d betrayed him in body.

The end.

To this day, Luke didn’t know which hurt more—leaving Sophie or loving Sophie.

But what if he’d been wrong about her? What if he’d been wrong to believe in secondhand gossip instead of the heart-and-guts proof of their actual relationship?

No. There was evidence, the kind she couldn’t hide.

Luke coughed. “I hear you’ve got a kid.”

Sophie’s alarmed eyes met his in the rearview mirror; the car shot dangerously fast around one of the switchback curves. She slammed her foot on the brake, sending the back end fishtailing into a soft sandy spot on the shoulder of the road.

“Take it easy,” Luke said, just before he was flung across the seat as she bumped back onto the road. By the time he’d awkwardly righted himself, pushing himself up with his hands cuffed behind his back, she’d gotten the car under control and was proceeding as if he hadn’t spoken, her lips tightly pursed. He sought her eyes in the mirror, but she wouldn’t look at him.

“A boy,” he said.

Her fingers clenched on the wheel. “Let’s keep this strictly business.”

“Not possible.”

Her head jerked sideways and he caught a glimpse of her pale face and stormy eyes, brimmed by thick brown lashes. “What did you say?”

“You and I will never be strictly business.”

“Fourteen years without contact certainly indicates otherwise.”

“Nope. Fourteen years without contact only means that we both went cold turkey. Now that I’m back…” He let the smoldering heat inside him flow into his intense stare. It was amazing how physical desire could blot out one’s doubts. “Things are bound to be different. There’s a wicked temptation in proximity.” If she hadn’t cuffed him, he could have run his finger along her exposed nape to remind her of the sparks that flew between them. It was obvious that maturity had only deepened the attraction.

His fingers flexed. Was her skin still as smooth as satin? He’d always been astonished by how soft she was beneath her rough cotton blouses and cheap denim jeans. His sweet little Sophie had been a pink rose bristling with thorns.

She caught her breath. “Don’t—” She exhaled noisily. “Don’t you even think of starting up with me again, Luke Salinger. I’m not interested.”

“Well, well. Little Sophie’s learned to stand up for herself.”

“I finally figured out that no one else would do it for me.”

“Yeah.” He remembered the patrol car parked in her driveway on that fateful night. With all her defiance, why hadn’t she stood up for him? Although he’d never have dreamed of asking her to lie, it had turned out that he’d wanted her unflinching support. Had counted on it. Discovering that not even Sophie was prepared to back him up had seemed like the final cruel blow.

Years later, he understood that the situation hadn’t been so black-and-white. He’d made mistakes himself. Bad ones. Perhaps even irreparable.

“Life sure is a bitch, huh, Little Soph?” he said coaxingly.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, uncoaxed. “May I remind you that I’m your arresting officer?”

“Something you’ve been waiting to do for a long time, I’d wager.” He kept his tone nonchalant. Even so, he could tell by the way she cocked her head that she’d caught the underlying accusation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, softly menacing.

“Only that a jail cell’s where you think I belong. Maybe you always did.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t speak for a long while. When finally she did, he couldn’t tell if the quaver in her voice indicated guilt or regret or maybe even longing. “Oh, Luke,” she said. “Why’d you come back?”

“Hey, babe, you don’t sound happy to see me.”

She slammed the flat of her hand on the steering wheel. “Try to be serious, please. I need to know why you’ve come back after so long. What made you—” A shudder coursed through her. “Why?”

He hesitated, wondering about the worry in her voice. It was as if she feared him. And that didn’t make sense.

“Haven’t you heard?” he said mildly, settling on the easiest of his reasons for returning to Wyoming. “The Lucases are having a family reunion at the ranch. A black sheep is just what they need to complete the happy get-together.”

Watching her face in the mirror, he caught the relief that flashed over her features. It was gone before he could fully weigh it. “And that’s all?” she prodded, her brows beetled.

He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. The links of the cuffs jingled. “Looks like I’m going to have a date in the courts as well. Thanks to you, Deputy Ryan.”

“I’m sure the family lawyer will take care of the problem in a snap.” She’d probably meant to sound gruff, unaware that a hint of concern had crept into her voice. “Judge Entwhistle is tough but fair. She’ll take into account your clean record.” Sophie cleared her throat. “As long as it’s completely clean, that is.”

“You mean, have I been carrying out a lawless rampage for the past fourteen years?” He shrugged. “Nope. I’m squeaky clean. Other than for a recent speeding ticket.”

She smiled. Then quickly sobered. “So what have you been doing all this time?”

“A little bit of everything.”

“In the old days, that meant carousing, disturbing the peace, malicious mischief…”

“A guy learns to be more discreet when he’s on the lam.”

“On the lam for fourteen years?” Sophie braked at the highway intersection. “Some life.”

“Yeah, it’s been real fulfilling,” he growled, taunting her. What did she care? She’d cast him aside, hadn’t she?

“You always did suit your name,” she said softly. “Apparently you’re still an untamed maverick.” Her chin tilted, showing him her narrowed eyes. “When are you going to grow up, huh?”

“Like you? Little Sophie Ryan with her uniform and her handcuffs and her big, bad gun?”

She twisted around in the seat. “At least I’ve stayed in one place and built something good and lasting for myself! I’ve lived up to my responsibilities!”

Luke was taken aback. “Sophie?” he said quietly, puzzled by her vehemence.

A truck stacked with hay bales rattled past. She stepped on the gas and pulled out behind it with a spin of the tires—obviously her driving hadn’t improved just because she was now piloting a patrol car. “Forget I said that. I was only blowing off steam.”

He insisted. “What responsibility have I shirked?”

She hunched her shoulders. “I expect your family could answer that better than me.”

“Maybe.” But he didn’t think that was what she’d meant. He went silent for a few minutes, trying to evaluate the situation from Sophie’s viewpoint, with the aid of years of hindsight. If she’d been as angry and mixed-up as he, shouldn’t he be able to find enough compassion to forgive her own lapse—or lapses, according to Heath—of good judgment?

I don’t know if I can. He’d been Sophie’s first lover; his possessiveness had run strong. The shock of her betrayal had been the only way he’d made the break, and still his unreasoning desire for her had remained—a torturous emotion to live with, driving him to dangerously escalating extremes in his work as a stuntman, all part of the effort to get her out of his mind until he’d finally smartened up and realized that seeing her again was the only way to know for sure.

“I left you,” he said. “You’re still holding a grudge about that?”

She gave a short, hard, dismissive laugh. No answer.

They were passing Punch’s place, nearing the town. In a short while Sophie would turn back into Deputy Ryan and Luke would have missed his chance. He had to speak now—or forever hold his peace.

“I wanted to take you with me, you know.”

She went as quiet and watchful as an owl, her rounded eyes reflected in the mirror.

“My brown-eyed girl,” he whispered, lost in a sudden swirl of bittersweet memory. Slow dancing with Sophie in the gravel parking lot of the Thunderhead since she was too young to go inside, her head flung back, her dark eyes on his. Speeding on his motorcycle, taking the switchback at a reckless speed, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. Hours spent lying together in the long grass of the Boyer’s Rock pasture, the sun-warmed earth their refuge, their cradle. Trading kisses, whispering confessions, studying the stars.

Sophie blinked. Several times. “Sure you wanted to take me. So much so that you left town without even saying goodbye.” Her voice was clotted with wary resentment.

Yet hopeful? he wondered, then deliberately reminded himself of why he’d left her behind in the first place. According to Heath—and other walking, talking evidence in the form of her son—she’d not only spilled her guts to the sheriff, she’d quickly found “consolation” with a string of other men.

Luke refused to let her see how badly that tore at his insides. Ice water in my veins. “Well, jeez, Sophie, I guess I figured that if you were willing to turn me in to the sheriff, keeping me as your boyfriend was not a top priority.”

She stopped the car in the middle of Granite Street, two blocks from the police station. Luckily there was very little traffic, as was usually the case in Treetop.

“Luke…” she said, turning to stare at him over the top of the car seat. Slowly she shook her head. “I didn’t.”

Anguish clawed at his gut. “You didn’t?”

She was adamant, proud, passionate—his Sophie, his brown-eyed girl. “No, Luke. I most certainly did not turn you in to the sheriff!”



SOPHIE TURNED THE KEY and sat dully in her thirteen-year-old hatchback—same age as her son—waiting for the engine to stop rattling. A wisp of smoke rose from the tailpipe.

She sighed. There was no way she could afford a new car this year, not if she intended to heat the house during the long, cold winter, keep Joey in jeans, sneakers and pizza, plus pay tuition for the last two courses she needed to complete her degree in social work. If going to college part-time had given her any smarts at all, she’d have chosen a field that paid better. Having a career that meant something to her and the world at large was more important to her happiness in the long run, but in the short run, her old car was ready to plunk its last ker-plunkety plunk.

Sophie’s head throbbed. Maybe her dad could work on the engine again, keep it going a little longer with another bubblegum-and-rubber-band miracle.

She pushed the door open with a creak and stepped out, tired to her bones. Aside from the wicked headache, it wasn’t a physical exhaustion as much as a mental one. The psychological trauma of Maverick’s return had done her in.

Facing her father and son was what she dreaded next. If Archie “Buzzsaw” Ryan had made his rounds to the Thunderhead and the liquor store instead of moldering in his trailer out back, he’d have heard the news. Word wouldn’t have reached Joey as fast. Even if it had, he wouldn’t really care about an adult he’d never met. Unless some busybody had started up with the old rumor about Luke Salinger being Joe Ryan’s father…

Rolling her head to ease the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders, Sophie clumped up the porch steps of her two-bedroom wood frame cottage. Coming home usually gave her a boost. The small house wasn’t much, but it was hers—at least the mortgage was—and she’d worked hard to make it into the kind of safe, cozy home she’d never known, growing up. Today it just looked like a money pit—a conglomeration of loose shingles, dripping faucets, crumbling plaster and buckling linoleum. If she hadn’t splashed bright jewel-toned coats of paint on every surface to distract the eye, there’d be no disguising that the place was coming down around their ears.

“Hey, Joe?” she called from the pumpkin-colored front hall, even though the silence told her that her son wasn’t home. She checked the clock. Time for a bath before she had to start dinner. If ever there was a day when she needed to be cleansed of her cares and woes, it was today.

Luke already knows about Joey.

The thought had pulsed at the back of her mind all day, a red-for-danger strobe that had given her the vicious headache. As the tub filled, she popped a couple of aspirin, staring at her face in the mirror over the sink.

“He doesn’t know everything,” she told her bleak reflection.

But he soon will—someone’s bound to repeat the rumor, argued the voice that had taken control of her pounding skull. What will you do when he shows up, asking if it’s true?

How badly did she want Joey to have a father?

“I can’t think about it now.” Sophie stripped off her uniform and dropped it in the hamper. She’d have to remember to bring the ruined shirt to the dry cleaner’s tomorrow morning—another expense she could do without.

As if it mattered in the larger scheme of things. After this morning, she had worse problems than coffee stains to think about. Confronting them made her headache intensify. She could have sworn it was gnawing away her brain.

Luke suspects.

She winced in pain.

Heath Salinger knows.

The townspeople think they know.

Gad, her head was going to explode.

But everyone’s wrong—including me.




CHAPTER THREE


TYPICALLY, JOE RYAN came home with a clatter and crash—backpack flung to the floor, high-top sneakers kicked off against the wall, a brief stop to power up the TV at top volume, a noisy forage through the kitchen, gabbing loudly all the while whether or not there was a response from Sophie. Only his garrulousness had abated recently as he took more and more to locking himself in his attic bedroom, rap music pounding the slanted walls, immune to his mother’s entreaties for either a little bit of peace and quiet or a return of their old rapport. While Sophie figured Joe’s moods were the usual teenage funk, she missed the boy he used to be: sweet, funny, affectionate—a chatterbox.

“Hey, Mom, what’s for supper?” Joe hollered from the kitchen, sounding as though his head was buried in the refrigerator.

Sophie had left the bathroom door open a wide crack. “Casserole,” she yelled, which was what she always said when she hadn’t planned a menu or shopped for ingredients. There was usually something on hand that could be made into a casserole.

Joe groaned. “Not again.”

“Unless you want to fire up the barbecue?”

He groaned louder to be sure that she’d heard.

She muttered. “Then don’t complain about the casserole.”

A creaking sound followed by the shushing slide of stocking-clad feet in the short hallway told her that Joey was trying to creep upstairs without her hearing. “Joe,” she called. “Stop and say hello before you go up to your room.”

“’Lo,” he mumbled from outside the bathroom door.

A few years back—more like four, Sophie realized with a pang—Joe used to sit with her while she soaked in the bathtub. He’d chatter about his day at school and why the pond changed color and how come Grandpa only had one arm and what he’d dreamed about last night, which at the time was usually spaceships or vampires. Now she was lucky if she could get a “’lo” out of him.

Today she needed more. “Can you talk to me, please, Joey? Tell me that you got an A on your first biology quiz and that you and Grandpa cleaned out the garden shed like you were supposed to all summer.”

“I got a B+, and Grandpa wasn’t here when I got home from school so I went over to Fletcher’s and played basketball. Okay?”

“You’ll do the shed this weekend.”

“Yeah.” Agitated, Joe rattled a bag of tortilla chips in time with his jiggling leg. He was all twitches and fidgets these days, a perpetual motion machine. “Can I go now?”

The silhouette he made hovering in the dim hallway was disturbing to Sophie’s tenuous peace of mind. Anyone looking for it would see her son’s familiarity to the Salinger brothers—the lanky frame, the handsomely carved profile, the height. Luckily Joe’s eyes were brown like hers and not Luke’s steel blue. That would have been a dead giveaway.

Joe raked one hand through the scruff of dark hair that flopped over his forehead. “Huh, Mom? Can I pleeeze go to my room now?”

Sophie squirmed in the bathtub, rubbing at the goose flesh that had sprung up on her arms despite the steamy water. “Then nothing interesting happened today?”

“Mo-o-om…”

“Okay, you can leave,” she said, relieved. “Way to go on that B+.” But Joe was already gone, galloping up the twisting steps like a gangly runaway colt. His door slammed. Two seconds later, music blared. Sophie listened for a few minutes to be sure he hadn’t sneaked in a banned CD—she knew more about gangsta rap than she wanted—before tuning out.

Reprieve. She closed her eyes and slid lower in the tub. She had time to think of what—if anything—she should tell her son about his father.

Gradually the hot bath eased her tight muscles. Total relaxation beckoned, but one thought kept intruding. Joey had said that his grandfather was gone. Which meant that Archie would return knowing of Luke’s reappearance. The Lucases—even though the younger generation carried the name Salinger, they were still considered Lucases through and through—were the kind of family that the citizens of Treetop loved to gossip about. Every lurid detail of Sophie’s chase and arrest of the black sheep would be dissected over dinner tables all over town. Archie would glare at her across the table and wave his stump around, dredging up his ancient complaints about the Lucases and how they’d done the Ryans wrong. It would be the Montagues versus the Capulets all over again, and Sophie was exhausted just imagining it.

“Nuts.” She hoisted herself out of the tub. One way or another, Maverick’s return was going to force her into a showdown with everyone in her life. And out of it, she supposed, thinking of Luke with an unwelcome but nonetheless compelling fascination. She shivered.

“Branded,” she whispered, blotting herself with a towel. Her fingers went involuntarily to the Mustangs tattoo on her rear end. Get a grip, she scolded herself. It’s just a tattoo. Not a brand. She wrapped the towel around herself, hoping that out of sight would equal out of mind, and went to get dressed.

Sure enough, by the time Sophie had concocted a kitchen-cupboard casserole and was slicing sweet potatoes to look like french fries—as if that would fool Joey—Archie Ryan had arrived in a temper. A short, stubby, muscular man in canvas work pants and an un-tucked plaid flannel shirt, he stomped past the kitchen window, ignoring his daughter’s wave. He went straight to the trailer she’d persuaded him to park in the backyard because that was the only way she could keep an eye on him.

After putting the sweet potatoes in the oven to roast, she called for Joe to set the table, knowing very well he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—hear her over his loud music. She sighed in exasperation before climbing the attic steps to bang on his door until it rattled.

Archie was next. However, as soon as Sophie stepped outside the back door, the mud-speckled red motorbike leaning against the garden shed caught her eye. And held it.

Getaway.

She plopped down onto the back step and rested her chin on the heel of her palm, letting herself imagine climbing aboard Joe’s peppy little bike and taking off for the hills, leaving behind her cantankerous father, her complicated son and all her other responsibilities. She’d go straight to the Rockies and climb toward the sky, the Continental Divide being the closest thing to heaven on earth that she knew of. Already she could feel the wind in her hair, the thrum of the engine, the adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream….

Sophie shook her head. She hadn’t dreamed about such things in years. Luke was to blame, Luke and his seductive pledge that he’d wanted to take her with him.

Fourteen years too late.

“Goddamn you, Maverick,” she said, rising to stalk across the straggly grass to pound on her father’s dented door. “Supper,” she barked. “Now or never, Dad.” Without waiting, she returned to the cottage where Joe was miraculously setting the table. She wrapped her arms around his skinny shoulders and gave him a tight hug that was mostly a comfort to herself. He slipped away, smiling sheepishly.

The screen door wheezed. “What’s to eat?” Buzzsaw demanded in his distinctive gravelly voice, already scowling at her from beneath the creased brim of his grimy straw cowboy hat. He had a grizzled week-old beard and stormy brown eyes that turned mean when he’d crossed from pleasantly buzzed to downright drunk.

Sophie was no longer intimidated. Time and circumstance had tipped the scales of power in her favor. She swept off her father’s hat and set a green salad on the table. “It’s been a long, hard day. We are going to sit together and have a nice dinner without complaint or ill comment. We will be polite and courteous and talk only of pleasant subjects. Isn’t that right, Dad?”

Archie grunted as he went to his place.

Sophie took that as agreement. “Joey, will you say grace?”

“Oh, Mom.”

She smiled—pointedly. “Pardon me. I meant, Joe, my dear, handsome, obedient son, will you please say grace?”

Joe took one look at her steely smile and ducked his chin to comply. He knew his mother’s limits.

Even Archie seemed to understand; occasionally a glimmer of a clue pierced his thick skull. They ate dinner in a near silence that Sophie found very restful. The only discussions were those she initiated, consisting of topics such as the cushions she was needlepointing for the window seat in her bedroom and the gorgeous acorn squash Bess Ripley was selling from her produce stand at the railroad junction.

When they finished, Joe helped wash the dishes one-handed—a towering ice cream cone occupying the other—and then begged to be excused to play computer games. Because he asked so nicely Sophie agreed, even though she couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to be outside on such a beautiful evening. She thought of Luke then, locked up in one of Treetop’s little-used, cement-block jail cells. Luke, who belonged to the outdoors more than anyone she’d ever known.

It wasn’t like this was the first fine September evening he’d spent in the lockup. The Mustangs’ penchant for petty crime had kept them all checking in and out of the jail on a rotating basis. Luke had always been the first to make bail or pay his fine, thanks to Mary Lucas and her attorneys-on-retainer.

There was no reason for Sophie to feel sorry for him.

She put the last plate away and slammed the yellow cupboard door. She raked her hair back from her face, hoping the taut pull of skin over her forehead would yank her out of the momentary funk.

Instead her thoughts returned to the shock of seeing Luke again. How he’d alternated between lazy taunts and the bitter accusations that had shaken her already-wobbly resolution to distance herself.

What had become of Luke? Her Luke—handsome, vital, burning with the joy of life?

Sure, he’d always been wild. But he’d never been…bad. Not at the core. Not like Demon Bradshaw, who the sheriff’s department currently suspected of selling illegal firearms, among other nefarious dealings. So far they hadn’t been able to put together enough evidence for an arrest.

“That’s not Luke.” Sophie let out a deep breath and released her hair. She pulled the drain and wiped down the counter, her eyebrows drawn together in a scowl that was an unconscious copy of her father’s.

“Hey, girl,” Archie called from the front porch. “Come on out here.”

Figuring she’d put it off long enough, Sophie went to the door, wiping her wet hands on the back pockets of her denim pedal pushers. “Ice cream, Dad?”

“Uh, no.” Guiltily Archie slipped a can of beer to his left side, holding it there with the stump of the arm he’d lost in a logging accident on Lucas land approximately thirty years ago. Sophie made no comment. Aside from the occasional sniping argument when her temper wore thin, she’d given up expecting her father to change his ways. Only middle age and bouts of ill health had mellowed his bad habits.

She sat beside him on the purple porch swing and gazed out over Granite Street, waiting for the well-named Buzzsaw to start in on the grief the Lucases had caused him. Birds twittered and hopped in the old plum tree that made a canopy over the small front lawn, pecking at the last of the rotting fruit. The saw-toothed leaves shimmered against the deepening sky.

For once Archie was subdued. “I hear that good-for-nothing Lucas boy’s back in town.”

“He’s a Salinger, Dad. His mother was a Lucas.”

Archie snorted. “Same thing. They’re all rotten, don’t matter what name they go by. It’s in the blood.”

Sophie tensed. The front windows were open. Joe might overhear their conversation from the living room. The bleeps, small explosions and mechanical screams of his computer video game reassured her that his attention was focused elsewhere—on virtual mayhem instead of the real kind. “I wouldn’t condemn them all,” she said. “But, yes, I did arrest Luke Salinger.”

Archie drank deeply and emitted a satisfied ahhh. “For speeding?”

“I gave him a citation for that. I arrested him on old charges—breaking and entering and arson. Remember the fire that damaged the law office? Fourteen years ago, next month.”

“Humph. That boy always was trouble, with his fancy motorcycle and his law-breakin’ ways. I hope you got the sense not to have any more to do with him.” Sophie’s past relationship with Luke—an alliance Archie had done his best to prevent—hung between them with all the levity of a lead balloon.

She fingered the frayed edge of her pedal pushers. “Well, Dad, I expect I’ll be seeing him in court.”

“Court.” Archie guffawed. “You think them muckety-mucks are gonna let that case get to court? Old lady Lucas will be in the judge’s chambers calling in favors—”

“Hush, Dad. I don’t want Joey to hear.”

That shut Archie up. He and Sophie had never talked about the identity of Joe’s father, partly because Archie had thrown her out of the trailer in a drunken rage when he’d found out she was pregnant. He’d been deep into a bad streak then, drinking non-stop. Only seventeen and not yet graduated, Sophie had been almost relieved to go through the pregnancy on her own, in a rented room at Lettice Bellew’s boardinghouse. Archie hadn’t seen his grandson until Joe was three years old. And it wasn’t until he and Sophie had made their uneasy peace many years later that he’d become a regular fixture in their lives.

Archie’s brows met in a deep frown. “Girl, what are you gonna tell the boy about, uh…”

Sophie held her breath, but her father didn’t finish the question. In which case she wasn’t about to volunteer an answer.

“Them Lucases,” he growled, lapsing into familiar territory. He thrust out his stump, the sleeve of his shirt knotted where the elbow should have been. “You know what they done to me, girl. By rights I should be settin’ pretty with a big pension, but nosiree, old lady Lucas is as mean as a junkyard dog, holding tight to every penny unless she’s gonna see some return…”

Sophie tuned out her father’s voice until it was no more than an annoying whine at the back of her brain. The truth of the matter was that Archie had snuck a few beers the day he’d had the accident with a chain saw that had resulted in the loss of his arm. Mary Lucas, a new widow at the time, had taken over running the Lucas cattle ranch and logging operations. She’d paid the hospital bills and given Archie a generous settlement—considering the circumstances—a goodly portion of which he’d promptly drunk up on a months-long spree. Even so, he persisted in blaming his troubles and sketchy work history on Mary Lucas and her extended family.

Sophie had heard it a thousand times before. Gently she pressed a hand on her father’s good arm. “Shut up, Dad, and take a look at the sunset. Isn’t that pretty?”

Archie barely glanced at the apricot glow that lit up the mountainous horizon before continuing churlishly, “Listen to me, girl. Call ’em Lucases or call ’em Salingers, that family will stomp you under their boot heels for so much as smiling at them the wrong way. You steer clear—”

“I’ve got a badge, Dad. Even Mary Lucas has to respect the law.”

“Sure, sure, go ask Sheriff Warren about that. He’s been doing their bidding ever since they helped him get elected top dog, just like every sheriff before him. How’dja think my accident report got cleaned up so no one named Lucas was to blame?”

Sophie simply shrugged. Argument was useless when her father got this worked up.

“That’s right,” Archie said, nodding so vigorously the swing started to sway. “I tell you—”

“Joey!” Sophie said in relief when her son made the mistake of poking his head out the door. “Join us. Please.”

Joe rolled his eyes, but he came outside and sat on the porch railing. The golden-pink light of the setting sun washed across his narrow face and baggy white T-shirt. To Sophie he was beautiful—not that she dared say so out loud when he’d become so touchy about expressions of affection. Silently she ached with her immense love for her son. Too much, she sometimes thought, for one heart to hold.

When Joe had been born she’d known with a protectiveness so fierce it scared her that she would do anything to keep her baby from suffering the kind of upbringing that she’d had—one that had become essentially homeless, parentless and loveless after her mother had died when she was only five. Right from the start, though, she’d denied Joe a father, even if it hadn’t been entirely by plan. Could she continue to deny him the truth as well, especially now that Luke was back home and the can of worms had been opened again?

Listening to his grandfather’s diatribe, Joe cocked his head in such a way that Sophie was reminded of Luke so explicitly that she wondered why no one else noticed. Or commented.

Probably some of them did, but only behind her back.

The Lucas brand, she thought, growing doleful as she twisted a thick curl of hair around her index finger. She’d always worried about what Mary Lucas, the dominating family matriarch, might do if she knew for sure that Joe carried her blood. As of yet, her eldest grandson Heath hadn’t produced an heir. For a long time now Sophie had watched and waited, knowing more about Heath’s personal life than she cared to because she was friendly with his wife, Kiki. It was Sophie’s greatest fear that one day Mary Lucas might began to look elsewhere for her heir.

And there would be Joe Ryan, hidden in plain sight.

The Lucas brand was more trouble than it was worth, in Sophie’s estimation. Joe wasn’t one of their heads of cattle, mineral mines, or uncut trees. He wasn’t their property.

She would never let that family stamp their brand on him!

If that meant she had to deny his parentage, so be it.



“TELL ME ABOUT SOPHIE RYAN,” Luke said when the deputy came to collect the hard plastic supper tray. For fifteen minutes he’d been standing at the high, narrow window of his jail cell, looking out at the sky, thinking of Sophie and her amazing statement of innocence regarding the criminal investigation. She hadn’t uttered one world of explanation to defend, or prove, herself, only brought him in silence to the station, booked him, fingerprinted him and locked him up.

And Luke believed her.

It remained true that someone with inside knowledge had dropped a bug in Ed Warren’s ear. But that someone had not been Sophie, despite the incriminating words that Luke had overheard and somehow misinterpreted.

Of course it hadn’t been Sophie. He was a jackass for doubting her on that count. He’d been so blinded by jealousy over reports of Sophie’s swift recovery from their love affair that he’d believed without proof the gossip that claimed she’d served up the Mustangs to the authorities.

He cursed. Even if she had cracked under interrogation, could he blame her? She’d been seventeen, alone and abandoned—by him. The fault had been his, no other’s.

Face it, man. He stared at the lacy upper branches of a tall cottonwood tree, the only thing he could see from the window besides the sky. The leaves shook like coins in the gilding rays of the setting sun. You acted like a first-class heel. A selfish hothead. A coward.

It was no big surprise, then, that Sophie wanted nothing to do with him aside from his arrest.

Deputy Boone Barzinski was absently studying the uneaten dessert on Luke’s tray. “Sophie Ryan…” he mulled in response to Luke’s request. The redheaded deputy scooped up a dollop of bread pudding with his forefinger.

Luke made fists around the iron bars of his cage. “How long has she been a deputy?” He was beginning to wonder how much of Heath’s secondhand information was accurate.

“Oh, well, now…” Boone licked his finger. He seemed good-natured, but not the sharpest tack in the hardware store. “Maybe four years. No, five. Or six?”

“She’s unmarried?”

“Yep. I mean, nope. She’s not married.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed. “Boyfriend?”

Boone colored; Luke discerned that the deputy had a crush on Sophie. “Uhh, I think she’s…unattached,” he mumbled.

“She’s got a son.”

“Well, you know.” Boone’s glance skipped across the congealed contents of the supper tray. He lowered his voice. “An unwed mother. Nowadays these things happen even to good girls, am I right?”

“Good girls?” Heath—Luke’s main contact in Treetop for more than a decade—had said that Sophie’s inclinations had leaned rather drastically in the opposite direction.

“Saint Sophie—that’s what some of the guys in the department call her. Because she doesn’t…you know. Uh, share her favors. She hardly even dates.” Boone’s brows arched up a high forehead bisected by a horizontal tan line. “They say she’s practically a nun, even though there’s, well, her son and all as evidence of, uh, whatever. I dunno. I was hired only last year, so I couldn’t actually say…”

Luke stared—hard. His knuckles were stark white. “How old is Sophie’s son?”

Boone blinked nervously under the scrutiny. He waggled his head back and forth, as if silently counting with each nod. “Junior high age, I guess. Joe’s a good boy. Plays guard on the basketball team. Sophie’s awful proud of him.”

“Twelve?” Luke asked sharply. “Thirteen? That old?”

“Maybe.”

“And what about the father?”

Remembering his professional capacity, Boone drew back, squaring his sloping shoulders in the taupe deputy’s uniform. “Uh, say, what do you care anyhow?” His color deepened, turning even the pale half of his forehead pink. “Sophie doesn’t put up with loose talk. She’d have my hide if she knew I’d gone and blabbed—”

“No harm done.” Luke stepped back from the bars. “Sophie and I used to be friends. I was wondering how she’s been doing, that’s all.”

“Oh. Right.” Recognition—and something more—flared in the deputy’s eyes. “You’re the one who—” Boone slammed shut his mouth. “Er, uh, okay. You set for the night? Sure you don’t want to make a phone call? We got lights out at ten.”

You’re the one who— The unfinished statement was jangling in Luke’s head like a fire alarm, but he nodded and drew further back into his cell. When Deputy Barzinski returned an hour later to put out the lights Luke was still standing in the same place, silent but alert, his eyes on the narrow rectangle of indigo sky.

Sophie, he repeated to himself. Sophie…

He was the one who—what?



JUDGE HARRIET ENTWHISTLE prided herself on being eccentric and independent, as well as tough. She ran her court her way and hang what the judicial review board had to say. There were cases where a woman’s good sense had to overrule the guidelines thought up by city folk who, when it came right down to it, knew beans about country-style justice.

The particulars of the bail hearing of Mr. Lucas Salinger—fugitive, notorious hometown boy, grandson of the judge’s favorite canasta partner—had convinced Harriet that this was such a case. Her quandary was how to adequately satisfy what was one of the participants’ most unusual need for personal justice with what the law demanded.

“Let me see if my poor ole brain’s got this straight,” the judge said, glaring from the bench at the assorted players, not out of any actual ire, but just on general principles. “The injured party in this case, Sampson and Devore, Attorneys-at-Law, have been out of business for eight years, and they never wanted to press charges in the first place. Oddly enough.” Lucas money had passed hands there, she’d wager. “Mr. Salinger—” the judge regarded the leather-clad defendant sourly “—skipped town before he could be fully questioned. Our good sheriff seems disinclined to reopen the investigation.” Sheriff Ed Warren bobbed up, smiling like a politician. “For reasons that fail me,” Judge Entwhistle intoned, and the sheriff dropped down again, his smile gone stale as day-old doughnuts. “However, the charges against Mr. Salinger were never officially dropped, leading Deputy Sophie Ryan to make an arrest when Mr. Salinger reappeared in town.”

Judge Entwhistle paused to scan the arrest report, neatly filled in by Deputy Ryan, whom the judge was prepared to favor above the rest of the yahoos standing before her. Sophie Ryan had testified in the circuit court many times. She was always respectful, well-prepared and honest, unlike some of the law enforcement personnel, who were so puffed-up with machismo they thought a starched uniform and a sidearm were enough to persuade even a judge to their point of view. Nevertheless…

Mary Lucas had asked for leniency, and Mary did know how to play a mean game of canasta.

The judge looked up. Every eye in the courtroom was trained on her face, which put her in a better mood. “And finally, we have the prosecutor—” the fresh-out-of-law-school pipsqueak brightened expectantly “—who also is disinclined to prosecute the case, considering the time span and Mr. Salinger’s clean record and gainful employment thereafter. Is that right?”

The prosecutor agreed.

Judge Entwhistle addressed Luke Salinger. “I’m of a mind to see that you get what you have coming to you, young man, fourteen years too late or not.” She scrutinized the defendant, trying to decide if he was as lawless as the case signified or merely temporarily misguided, as according to Mary Lucas.

After a nice, lengthy silence, the judge cleared her throat. “Which leads to my ruling. I’ve decided to continue this case indefinitely. In the meantime, Mr. Salinger, you’re free to go.” The judge tapped her gavel at the sudden rise of chatter. “However,” she said heavily, silencing the courtroom, “I also intend to keep you under close supervision, Mr. Salinger.” She twitched a scolding finger, deciding to take a left turn off the rule book. “As a matter of fact, I do believe it would be wise to appoint a watchdog to see that you behave yourself. By order of this court, I place Mr. Lucas Salinger under the charge of—”

Mary Lucas set her cane and rose from her seat in the first row, a proud, tall, gaunt figure in a Western-cut business suit.

“—Deputy Sophie Ryan,” the judge finished with a flourish.

A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Several mouths dropped open in shock, including Sophie’s. Judge Entwhistle favored the young deputy with a woman-to-avenging-woman smile. “Deputy Ryan will see that you pay for your crimes, Mr. Salinger. I wish you both the best of luck.” A satisfying smash of the gavel. “And that’s all she wrote, people. Court is adjourned.”




CHAPTER FOUR


MARY LUCAS STABBED HER CANE against the marble floor. “Of all the foolish notions!”

A small smile flickered across Luke’s face. He’d completed the paperwork of his official release to find his grandmother waiting for him outside the courtroom doors and Deputy Sophie Ryan set like a guard dog near the exit at the other end of the hall. In between were a surprising number of townspeople, some of them friends, many of them busybodies, all of them loitering to see firsthand what would happen next.

Which was why Luke smiled. One glance at Sophie and he knew what was going to happen next—something he’d been waiting to do for fourteen years.

“I’m certain our lawyer can handle the situation,” Mary continued. She cast her grandson a sharp look. “If you had called, I might have heard about your unfortunate incarceration in time to deal with it properly.”

“I’m sorry, Grandmother. I would have called, but I didn’t want to involve you.” Luke—he’d been named after his mother’s side of the family—bent slightly to kiss the old woman’s cheek. She held herself stiffly and gave an abrupt “Harrumph,” but her stern bluish-gray eyes had suddenly developed a softening sheen.

Luke stroked a hand between her shoulder blades, reassuring himself that she was okay. He’d expected that in her late seventies his grandmother would have become noticeably older, but other than the cockeyed gait that precipitated the cane, she was the same tall, spare, tough old bird that she’d always been. Of course, she was not the type to give in without a fight, not even to old age.

Mary looked him up and down. “I certainly hope that this is the last of it, young man. Now that you’re back where you belong, I’ll stand for no more of your ma-lingering. Unless you’ve changed your mind about our business dealings—” Luke’s shrug conceded that he hadn’t “—you’ll take your place at the ranch.” She tapped her cane for emphasis. “Yes, yes. That’ll do. Running the ranch was never Heath’s strong suit. But you’ll be fine at the job, Luke. Just fine.”

“If I choose to stay, we can discuss it.”

The imperious angle of her head drew his attention to her feathery cap of white-as-snow hair. One sign that she’d grown older; when he’d left, it had been dark gray. “You’ll stay,” she insisted.

“I’ll consider it.”

Mary looked deliberately to the other end of the hallway, where Sophie stood by the double doors that led outside. “Oh, I think you’ll definitely be staying.”

Suspicion rankled. Luke’s gaze skipped across the curious faces of those loitering in the long hallway. Every muscle in his stomach clenched. Did they all know something that he didn’t?

“You heard Harriet’s ruling. You’re to stay under court supervision.” Mary nodded with a good amount of satisfaction, apparently realizing that the judgment hadn’t been so foolish after all.

“Oh, right. That.” He doubted that the ruling was legally enforceable, but for now he saw no reason to protest. It might be enjoyable, having Sophie as his watchdog.

“You will stay. I’m an old woman now, Luke. I’ve had all of your rebellion I can take. I need to see that my family is safe and settled, capable of carrying on to the next generation…” Again, Mary glanced toward Sophie.

A second shot of suspicion darkened Luke’s thoughts. “Don’t get any ideas in that regard, Grandmother.”

Mary’s thin lips curled in what passed for a smile. Her gaze shifted. “It’s not ideas that should concern you,” she insinuated.

Luke cocked his head. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that it’s time we had a serious talk, young man.”

After fourteen years apart, he could see the sense in that. Unfortunately, Mary Lucas’s “serious talks” usually entailed him buckling to her will. There was no listening or back and forth; only orders. She’d wanted him to study mining, mineralogy and business at Wyoming State. When that failed, he’d been instructed to focus on ranch work, then to surrender his motorcycle for the reward of a brand-new Chevy Blazer just like his brother’s. Although Luke had tried to explain to Mary and his frequently absent father that he wasn’t suited to the life they expected him to lead, not even his skirmishes with the law had seemed to convince them. His father put Luke’s troubles down to a bad reaction to his mother’s death, sure he’d get over it in time.

It had been more complicated than that. But explaining would hurt his father, and Luke couldn’t do that. Mary Lucas knew the truth, but she admitted only what suited her. She put his maverick ways down to grief and the sowing of wild oats, too bullheaded to believe that she couldn’t domesticate him to her purposes.

During those days, Sophie had been Luke’s only comfort. His eyes sought her out as surely as a compass points north. He moved toward her without conscious intent, brushing past the curious onlookers. Snake Carson stepped into Luke’s path, tattooed and muscled, grinning and calling him Maverick, saying something about Mustangs sticking up for each other. With a friendly slap on the shoulder, Luke made his way past the diehard member of his old motorcycle gang. Plenty of time for that later.

Someone pushed a door open to enter the courthouse. A slanting ray of bright September sunshine washed over Sophie. She turned away, squinting, tugging on her hat brim, the girlish curve of her cheek as firm and downy as a golden-pink apricot.

Luke put his arms around her. Struck with resurgent emotions, he wanted to sweep her up and carry her down the broad concrete steps. Only the years of misunderstanding that stood between them restrained the impulse.

She let out a squeak at his unexpected touch. He said, “Come outside with me,” giving no time for objection as he led her out the double doors. They clanged shut, cutting off the rising babble of voices. With only seconds to spare, he pulled Sophie off to the side. In the cool shadow of the portico, his lips covered hers. Sweet bounty. Her mouth was open, soft, caught by surprise. And warm, so warm…like liquid sunshine. His arms curved around her narrow back, drawing her closer.

The kiss was full, but too brief. By the time Sophie’s instinctive response had deepened into womanly knowledge, she’d regained herself. Luke felt her struggle against his embrace. Her head snapped back. She gave him a push that he allowed to propel him back a few steps.

Flushed, fuming, she said, “How dare you!” and swung at him wildly. Luke stood his ground. Her open palm cracked against his cheek.

Sophie’s eyes widened. For an instant she looked appalled, but then her face closed down. Without a word she turned on her heel and charged down the steps, stopping only when the doors opened and the others began pouring out.

Luke leaned against a pillar, his arms folded across his chest as he watched her inner struggle. He supposed he’d been wrong to kiss her without warning. But there were some temptations a man could resist for only so long. Sophie had always been his weak point.

The crowd was milling around, reluctant to leave when it was obvious there was much unfinished business between Sophie and Luke.

Ignoring them, Sophie stomped back up the steps. “Don’t you ever do that again,” she said to Luke in a low, sharp voice. Her brown eyes snapped with indignation.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, yes I do.” Her rigid control was new to him. They’d both learned their lessons, perhaps.

“I’m a sheriff’s deputy now, Luke, whether you like it or not. Sworn to uphold the law. Which means I have authority over you—”

“Not when it comes to kissing.”

Her narrowed eyes warned him to hush. “Kissing,” she hissed, leaning closer, “doesn’t come into it. What we have is a professional relationship. That’s it.” Her expression was not as confident as her words. “That is it,” she repeated for emphasis.

Yeah, sure. He was convinced.

“I don’t appreciate you trying to undermine my reputation—my authority, I mean—with adolescent stunts like…like…”

“Kissing?”

“I can’t believe you did that. Someone might have seen!”

Luke spread his hands, as if he were blameless. “Sorry. It dawned on me that I’d forgotten to give you a proper hello.”

She tamped her trooper hat back in place, eyeing him belligerently from beneath the brim. “After so many years, a handshake would have sufficed.”

“Not for Deputy Sophie.” He gave her a lazy, two-finger salute. “Apparently only handcuffs do it for you, ma’am.”

“Well, gosh, Luke, what did you expect?” She was baffled. “A big Welcome Home party? Was I supposed to be stuck here in Treetop, unchanged, waiting breathlessly for the day you’d return for—” She swallowed the next word, but he thought it might have been me.

His pulse raced. Maybe it wasn’t too late to right an old wrong.

Sophie wasn’t as hopeful. With an effort, she reassumed her distant, objective detachment. “Too bad Judge Entwhistle chose today to go soft. You’d be sentenced to ten years of hard labor if it had been up to me.”

“Exactly what crime would you be punishing me for?” he asked softly.

She sucked in another breath, her unschooled response apparent in the glitter of her eyes and the high color flaming in her cheeks. After a moment, she looked away. Too late.

She despises me, Luke thought. Suddenly he knew that his abandonment had been harder on her than he’d imagined, never mind Heath’s party-girl reports. And that in spite of it she’d stood her ground, living out her pain and humiliation under the scrutiny of the local denizens, some of whom had labeled her “trailer trash” before she’d learned how to talk.

She had guts, his Sophie. Whereas he’d taken the easy way out, even though it was becoming apparent that the path he’d traveled had cost him more than he’d known. Sophie had paid a high price too, but gained a new confidence and self-respect in exchange. She had found her place in the community, while he was still a freewheeling vagabond.

The question was: After fourteen years and inestimable miles, had they wound up in the same place? With—considering the thin line between love and hate—equally strong feelings for each other?

Did he still love Sophie Ryan, the feisty little brown-eyed girlfriend of his misspent youth?

She’d never left his heart, hard and shriveled though it was. But he was smart enough to recognize that the woman she’d grown into might turn his memories and fantasies of her as topsy-turvy as a carnival ride.

A ride for which the lady judge had just handed him a ticket. Which was not at all the harsh, swift justice Deputy Ryan had wished for, that was certain.

Luke smiled.

“Don’t smile at me,” Sophie warned, knowing she sounded foolish. It took all of her willpower not to wipe his kiss off her mouth, where it lingered like the warmth of a summer day.

The courthouse doors opened. More of the spectators filed out. They gave Sophie and Luke a wide berth, not out of caution, but out of amusement. She seethed, struggling with her anger and frustration.

Luke had made a laughingstock of her—again.

“Keep an eye on him, Deputy,” someone called, eliciting laughter. “Don’t let him get away this time!”

Snake Carson guffawed. “Handcuff him to your bedpost.”

Sophie gritted her teeth. Ever since their time with the Mustangs, Snake had treated her like a pesky mosquito worthy of a good swat. The several hundred dollars’ worth of traffic citations she’d written him went unpaid, as if she were playing pretend, her badge made of tinfoil, her uniform only a costume. Someday, she vowed, she’d prove herself to Snake, to the Mustangs, and to every single person in Treetop who looked down on her.

For now, she had to settle for jingling the handcuff case clipped to her equipment belt. “Better watch out, Carson. If you don’t pay your fines you’ll be next.”

“G’wan, Soph.” Snake was a large, muscular man in a tight black T-shirt, baggy camo pants and Army boots that had never seen Army duty. He was also the kind of arrogant bully who’d never been properly challenged. She suspected he wasn’t as tough as he liked to imagine.

The biker held up his tattooed arms, fists clenched, biceps bulging. “You can cuff me to your bed any day of the week, sweetheart.” A smattering of uncomfortable laughter accompanied his leer.

Luke turned his steely, unblinking stare on Snake. It curdled the ex-Mustang’s bravado as swiftly as it had Sophie’s, even though Luke didn’t say a word.

Snake did, but only one. A surprisingly high-pitched “Hey” popped out of his mouth as he lowered his arms. His lips clamped shut in embarrassment.

When Luke looked back at her, there was a strong light in his eyes. Possession, Sophie thought. A chorus of breathy exhalations rose from the onlookers as though they’d all reached the same conclusion. It didn’t matter one iota that Luke hadn’t uttered a word, or even raised the mask of his icy non-expression.

Branded. They all know I’m branded.

Her throat was raw, her nerve endings screaming. The injustice of it inflamed her. She was the one with the gun, the handcuffs, the badge, the authority—and she was still the one who was branded. It wasn’t fair.

Life was never fair, she brutally reminded herself. Especially not for women who were all too often at the mercy of their biology.

Sophie thought of Joe—her sacrifice and her reward. Her burden. Her heart. And she thought of the judge’s unconventional ruling, a ruling that pretty much gave Sophie the leeway to handle Luke how she saw fit.

Well, fine. The iniquity of life being what it was, there was still the law. Although men like Luke and Snake and Demon sometimes made the law seem as strong as the paper it was written on, let Luke try anything under her watch and he’d soon find out just how ruthless a woman scorned could be.

“All right, everyone,” Sophie said in her brusque deputy voice. “The show’s over.” For now. “Let’s clear the steps.” She made shooing motions as if the townspeople were a bunch of sheep who needed to be herded in the right direction.

She turned when Luke gingerly took his grandmother’s arm. “Just a moment, Mr. Salinger. I’d like to speak with you.”

Mary Lucas nodded. “Good day, Deputy Ryan.”

Sophie touched her brim. “Ma’am.” The frankness of the older woman’s cool-eyed regard was as discomfiting as ever. “I—um, I’m sorry I had to arrest Luke on his first day back, but…”

“It was your job.” Mary waved a hand that had retained its elegance despite being roughened by work and gnarled by age. “Yes, yes, of course. I understand.”

Sophie drew herself up. “I intend to follow Judge Entwhistle’s instructions. Luke won’t be getting into any trouble while he’s under my watch.”

Although Mary was not normally one to bow to outside authority, she did not seem perturbed by Sophie’s pronouncement. “Indeed. My grandson needs to be kept on a short leash.”

One corner of Luke’s mouth quirked, but he didn’t protest, either. It seemed that he’d learned the value of holding his tongue. Even so, Sophie rather missed the way he’d once jumped into every conversation with all guns firing, so fervent about his beliefs that he couldn’t understand how anyone’s view could possibly differ from his own.

Despite the guardedness, she doubted he’d changed all that much. If he was like the other Mustangs, he was taking her as seriously as a tiny Chihuahua nipping at his heels, unworthy of too great a defense.

Sophie huffed. “Indeed he does need a keeper. Don’t worry. I’ll see to him.”

Mary Lucas brushed away her grandson’s helping hand. “Between us, I expect we’ll manage, Deputy Ryan.” Setting her cane with a careful precision, she started down the steps, her head held high.

Sophie had the funny feeling a deal had just been struck. Only she didn’t know the terms.

She followed Luke, who was following his grandmother, ready to help in case she should falter. In the way of small towns, Sophie knew that Mary Lucas had badly bruised her hip in a recent fall from a green horse someone of her advanced age shouldn’t have been riding in the first place, but that the prognosis was good for a full recovery.

Typically, Mary refused to use her temporary infirmity to her advantage, even in Luke’s case. She gestured for him to rejoin Sophie and proceeded along the sidewalk without them.

Luke turned, disconcertingly good-looking even though he wore the same clothes as yesterday. His dark hair brushed the collar of the leather vest, curling slightly at the ends in a way that made Sophie’s fingertips tingle with a desire to comb it. She was going to have to watch herself as closely as she watched him.

“Okay, Deputy, what do I have to do?” he asked. “Check in with you like a parole officer?”

She tucked her traitorous fingertips into fists, not exactly sure of how to handle the unorthodox situation. “You might start by telling me what your intentions are.” One of the possible interpretations of the phrase scrambled her thought processes. “That is, I meant…” She swallowed, her throat still as raw as a slab of fresh-cut beef. It was a funny thing how emotions of the heart manifested themselves in physical symptoms. If she spent an extended time around Maverick she’d likely find herself in the hospital, languishing with an incurable case of lovesickness.

Lovesickness? Good God.

“Why have you come back?” she blurted.

There was a pause before he answered. “Not for any funny business.”

Hmm. Was his hesitation born of caution, or deception? She shrugged. “Given your record…”

He grinned. “You have good reason to doubt me.”

He didn’t have to look so pleased with himself.

“You’d better keep a very close eye on me,” he said with a sly intonation.

Sophie tilted her head back to regard the sky. “Am I the only one who’s taking this seriously?” she asked the bountiful cumulus clouds. It was much better not to look at Maverick. The smallest things about him—the flicker of his lashes, the tiny curved line that too many wry, lopsided grins had cut into the side of his cheek—knocked her off center.

“Seriously?” he said. “I don’t need a baby-sitter, if that’s what you and the judge had in mind.”

Sophie steadied herself. “That’s fine, because I’m a deputy, remember?”

“So you’ve said. Repeatedly.”

“You don’t think I can do my job?”

He looked her up and down. She felt far too aware of the feminine curves that filled out her uniform. More than her fingertips were tingling by the time he finished. The smile line in his cheek deepened, though he didn’t come right out with a full-fledged, wolf-licking-his-chops grin. “Anything I say now will get me into trouble.”

Sophie wanted to feel stolid and obdurate, not like a weightless butterfly shimmering in the sky, vulnerable to every turn of breeze. “Try me.” She touched her tongue to her upper lip. “I can take it.”

“I think…you’ve grown up very nicely.”

“Grown up being the operative phrase.”

He slid his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, rocking slightly on his heels. His face was still, but his eyes danced. “I was emphasizing nicely.”

She frowned to disguise the pleasure flickering inside her.

“Don’t be like that,” Luke said. “I was giving you a compliment.”

“The point is my competence, not my appearance.”

He shrugged. “You asked, darlin’.”

“Luke,” called Mary from the open window of her big old Ram pickup truck.

“Two seconds, Grandmother,” he said without taking his eyes off Sophie. He was only looking at her, but it was the sort of “looking” usually aimed at bikini-clad babes. With the added impact of the old-style Maverick magnetism. Sophie hadn’t experienced anything like it since he’d skipped town, and while she knew she should be demanding to be taken seriously, at heart she exaulted that he hadn’t completely changed.

Luke was still Maverick—intense, vital, electric Maverick.

And she could feel herself opening like a sunflower under his brilliant illumination.



SEEING THE LUCAS RANCH again was like getting slammed in the chest with a sledgehammer. Luke’s heart ached. For the moment, he let himself forget that his place in the family had been purchased at a high price. He believed that he was coming home.

The ranch looked good—too good. Almost enough to make him wonder why he’d left. The road turned in a wide arc between the gate and the house, sweeping past the stand of quaking aspen, alder and birch where he and Heath used to play Davy Crockett and Jim Bridger. The trees were already decked out in yellow and orange for autumn, whispering of winter with each shake of their leaves. A blue jay squawked and flashed its brilliant wings, scaring a flock of goldfinches up into the branches. The sight spread warm fingers of bone-deep satisfaction inside Luke. He’d missed this place.

A grassy slope rose toward the grand house. The original Lucas homestead had been built in a natural hollow of the land, where it was sheltered from the scouring wind. A practical, commonsense approach. After the family had prospered, the fancy new house, a three-story Georgian with rows of tall windows across the front, had been constructed on the rise. It overlooked the ranch in majestic splendor. To the east, the ranch land spread flat like a bolt of cloth flung across a table. To the west, ridges and red granite mesas were dotted with pines twisted by the cruel winds.

Mary Lucas surveyed the land with a satisfied air. “Good to be home,” she said, not quite a question.

Luke drove onto the apron of paving bricks that stretched across the front of the house. Low brick planters bristled with multi-colored asters and chrysanthemums. “It’s the same.”

“I expect you’ll notice a few changes.” His grandmother directed him to park near the steps. “We had to take down the old hay barn and rebuild. Roof was caving in. Lightning split the tree by the pond. That firewood lasted us two winters.”

“The one with the rope swing? That’s a shame.”

Mary shrugged. “We have no younger generation to enjoy it.”

The irony was apparent only to Luke. “Heath’s slipping up on the job, huh?”

“Kiki.” Snort. “That’s his wife. Too delicate and flighty by half. It takes a strong woman to bear a Lucas child.”

“Especially with the weight of all previous generations on your back.” Luke stepped out of the truck and slammed the door, not waiting for a response. Mary Lucas was not the doting grandmother type, looking to cootchie-coo a baby out of maternalistic yearnings. Her maternal instinct was for the land. All she cared about was continuing the family line for posterity. By any means necessary, up to and including paying a brood mare—or an expensive stud—to do the job.

Luke welcomed the harsh reminder. It kept him from getting sentimental.

His grandmother had opened her door, but was willing to wait for him to help her step down. He put his hand on her elbow, alarmed by the thin layers of skin and fat that barely padded her fragile bones. “Careful, Grandmother.”

She shook him off once she was on level ground. “I might have one foot in the grave, but I’m not dead yet. If you’ve come back to inherit, it’ll be a long wait, young man.”

You wish, old lady.

Luke refused to rise to her bait. “No problem. I assumed you went to the lawyers and changed the will years ago,” he said, then couldn’t help adding, “Leaving it all to Heath. As it should be. He deserves it.”

She stiffened her neck. “I reward loyalty.”

“But you revere blood.”

She refused his bait as well. “Rightly so. The Lucases have an honorable history in this state. Jefferson Lucas homesteaded this land at the turn of the century. His nephew was a state senator during the days when politicians were honorable. Even your father has managed to double our net worth.”

“Pretty good, considering he’s only a Salinger.”

“The Salingers are an important family as well. I approved the match.” Mary nodded, her cane tap-tapping up the stone steps. They’d never had the confrontation he’d intended, so Luke couldn’t figure out whether she didn’t know or simply didn’t care that he’d discovered the dirty little secrets that hadn’t made it into the public version of the Lucas family history.





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