Книга - The Marriage Charm

The Marriage Charm
Linda Lael Miller


The women of Bliss County have a pact–to find husbands. The right husbands.One already has: Hadleigh Stevens, who married rancher Tripp Galloway a few months ago. Now Melody Nolan thinks it's her turn. Melody has recently found success as a jewelry designer, and her work is the focus of her life. She's not exactly unhappy, but she wants more. She's always been attracted to Spence Hogan, the local chief of police, but she's convinced that Spence, a notorious charmer, isn't what you'd call husband material.Spence is a good cop who isn't scared of anything–except love. And he's done everything he can to preserve his reputation as a womanizer–a reputation that keeps marriage-minded women, including Melody, at bay. And yet…there's something about Melody he can't forget. Something his heart can't ignore.







The women of Bliss County have a pact—to find husbands. The right husbands.

One already has: Hadleigh Stevens, who married rancher Tripp Galloway a few months ago. Now Melody Nolan thinks it’s her turn. Melody has recently found success as a jewelry designer, and her work is the focus of her life. She’s not exactly unhappy, but she wants more. She’s always been attracted to Spence Hogan, the local chief of police, but she’s convinced that Spence, a notorious charmer, isn’t what you’d call husband material.

Spence is a good cop who isn’t scared of anything—except love. And he’s done everything he can to preserve his reputation as a womanizer—a reputation that keeps marriage-minded women, including Melody, at bay. And yet…there’s something about Melody he can’t forget. Something his heart can’t ignore.


Praise for Linda Lael Miller (#ulink_c9bc3f9e-7777-515f-b53d-4d101a05af8e)

Praise for The Marriage Pact

by #1 New York Times bestselling author

Linda Lael Miller

“Miller has found a perfect niche with charming western romances and cowboys who will set readers’ hearts aflutter. Funny and heartwarming, The Marriage Pact will intrigue readers by the first few pages. Unforgettable characters with endless spunk and desire make this a must-read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“This is a solid foundation for this new series by one of my favorite authors. The secondary characters rounded out the story with humor and give the reader an introduction to characters we are sure to meet again in the future.”

—Romancing the Book

“Miller treads familiar ground with her detailing of close-knit small town life, developed characters, sweet romance, and a hint of cowboy excitement.”

—Publishers Weekly

“I really loved this story. I laughed, cried and had several aww moments.”

—Book Reads and Reviews

“With her signature complex and well-developed characters, breathtaking scenery and well-written and told stories, she transports me to each locale and event. Her characters are true to life and could easily be your own neighbors and friends.”

—Love Romances and More

“Fans of Linda Lael Miller will fall in love with The Marriage Pact and without a doubt be waiting for the next installments, which will feature Hadleigh’s friends. Miller gives a little hint, just enough to whet my appetite, as to where one of the next storylines will go. There are the requisite pets, for without them this would not qualify as a true Linda Lael Miller book. Her ranch-based westerns have always entertained and stayed with me long after reading them.”

—Idaho Statesman


The Marriage Charm

Linda Lael Miller






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


Dear Reader (#ulink_98f8e568-55fe-5024-b8a6-bf0e27bc42d9),

I want to welcome you back to Bliss County, Wyoming! Mustang Creek, the heart of this county, is the kind of small town that appeals to people everywhere—with the kinds of friends and neighbors we all want. And, like most towns in Wyoming, it’s surrounded by some of the most beautiful country anywhere. The mountains and forests and rivers of Wyoming are still pristine, still wild, always majestic. It’s a landscape that defines people, becomes part of them.

That’s how it is with the characters in this trilogy. The Marriage Pact introduced the three friends (Hadleigh, Becca—known as Bex—and Melody). Over the course of these stories, each woman finds the man she’s meant to be with. In the first two stories she has a history with him that sometimes gets in the way. For Hadleigh, that man is Tripp Galloway, and for Melody it’s Spencer Hogan. (And as far as Bex goes, you’ll have to wait and see!)

The West and romance are two of my favorite themes, especially when I can bring them together. And friendship, which I’ve explored in all three stories, is another one. Needless to say, the role of animals in my characters’ lives (and in my life and maybe yours) is also of huge importance to me. There’s nothing like the unconditional love of an animal. You’ll see that with Spence and his dog, Harley, as well as his horse, Reb. Then there’s Melody and her cats, Ralph, Waldo and Emerson. Neither of these people would be who they are, what they are, without the animals who share their households and their lives.

Oh, I should mention that I’m also interested in art—appreciating it and making it—just like Melody. Jewelry especially. Among many other things, Melody created the charms that commemorate the marriage pact these three friends entered into in the previous book.

I hope you’ll enjoy Melody’s story as she comes to realize that her first instincts about Spence Hogan were right all along. Spence is now the police chief of Mustang Creek, and he typifies everything that’s most admirable about the men and women who protect us and keep us safe.

Please visit my website, LindaLaelMiller.com, to check out my upcoming books, read my blog and, of course, leave your own comments.

Happy reading! And happy trails to you. (This will make sense later in the book…)

With love,







For Bill Francis and Renae Kinsey,

two of the best friends I’ve ever had, with love and thanks.


Contents

Cover (#uab05fcbe-4e99-59b5-b1ef-9bcbc98dcbf2)

Back Cover Text (#u9db1453e-d76f-5782-9530-44940e9a69ee)

Praise (#u883a23dd-d9b3-51e4-86f3-9536612044b6)

Title Page (#u6dd5d547-f904-5e9b-a385-b32ede8a3a96)

Dear Reader (#u76ab025c-c5ec-5bab-b7da-94706b8be59b)

Dedication (#uc5251309-f6ca-50cc-8117-554cdefaf6ec)

CHAPTER ONE (#u22bad4a1-5e14-5b2a-90c0-a4fcb1ac51a6)

CHAPTER TWO (#u52410b9d-95cf-56c5-9200-4f70045c6af4)

CHAPTER THREE (#u284bf468-0bfe-566e-a476-ee55a2bc6e73)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u8245aba3-ba05-5099-9f7c-bfca1a7656d3)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_617a651b-cf80-5897-9024-1343116f1217)

After the wedding...

MOST OF HIS duties as his buddy Tripp’s best man complete, Spencer “Spence” Hogan ducked out of the reception, held in the library’s community room, as soon as the bride and groom left the scene, both of them beaming with just-married joy and understandably eager to get the honeymoon underway.

It was a five-minute drive to the police station. Once there, Spence strode through the small lobby without sparing more than a nod of greeting for Junie McFarlane, the second-shift dispatcher, or either of the two duty officers chatting her up.

Inside his modest office, he wasted no time swapping out the rented tux and shiny lace-up shoes for the well-worn jeans, blue cotton shirt and everyday boots he’d stashed there earlier in the day. He took his hat from the hook next to the door, put it on and then, feeling like his normal self instead of somebody’s pet monkey, Spence allowed himself a sigh of pure relief.

Out front again, he surveyed the goings-on.

The deputies, Nick Estes and Moe Radner, were back at their desks, focusing intently on pretty much nothing in particular and fairly radiating the Protestant work ethic. Both were rookies, their hair buzz-cut, their uniforms so starched that the fold lines still showed, their badges buffed to a high shine.

Junie caught Spence’s gaze and smiled slightly. She was just this side of forty and beautiful, in a country-music diva way. Mercifully, though, she went easy on the makeup, at least when she was on the job, saving the big hair, false eyelashes, sprayed-on jeans and rhinestones for her nights off. “How’d the wedding go, Chief?” she asked, with a twinkle in her green eyes. “Did Hadleigh Stevens manage to get herself married for real this time around, or did some yahoo show up and derail the whole shindig?”

Like Spence, Junie had attended the other ceremony, by now a local legend, right up there with the bank robbery back in 1894 and the time Elvis and his entourage breezed through town in a convoy of limos, somewhere in the mid-1950s, reportedly on their way to Yellowstone.

Spence chuckled. “Yep,” he confirmed, recalling the almost-wedding, just over a decade before. Tripp Galloway had been the yahoo-of-record, and Hadleigh had been the bride, eighteen, storybook-beautiful, naive as hell and in dire need of rescue, although she’d raised some spirited objections that sunny September afternoon. The ousted groom, well, he’d been the personification of Mr. Wrong. Otherwise known as Oakley Smyth.

Tripp, a man on a mission, had blown into that little redbrick church like a dust devil working itself up into a full-scale tornado, moments before the I dos would’ve been exchanged, calmly announced that he could give the proverbial just cause why these two could not be joined in holy matrimony and proceeded to do so.

Understandably, Hadleigh hadn’t taken Tripp’s interference at all well; in fact, she’d pitched a memorable fit and whacked him hard with her bridal bouquet, not once, but repeatedly, scattering flower petals every time she made contact.

There was no reasoning with her.

Finally, Tripp had lifted Hadleigh off her feet, slung her over one shoulder like a feed sack and carried her out of the sanctuary.

At that point, Hadleigh’s protests had escalated considerably, of course, and she’d kicked and squirmed and yelled all the way back down the aisle, through the main doors and outside, into a world of much wider possibilities. Most likely, she hadn’t been aware of that last part, being in a royal tizzy and everything.

For all Hadleigh’s outrage, no one had interceded—not the preacher, not Alice Stevens, Hadleigh’s grandmother and last living relative, not the stunned guests jamming the pews. Nobody moved a muscle, and nobody spoke up, either.

And that was a peculiar thing in itself, given the nature of small towns in general and Mustang Creek in particular. There, folks didn’t hesitate to get involved when there was a ruckus, the way they might in a big city. No, sir. These were country people; the men were cowboys and farmers, carpenters and electricians, truck drivers and garage mechanics, sure to wade in and fight if the need arose—and the women, when sufficiently riled, could be fierce, with or without their men to back them up, alone or running in a pack.

This time, though, they’d all stood by and watched, the whole bunch of them, male and female, while Hadleigh was being, as she’d put it, “abducted, damn it!”

After all, the collective reasoning went, it wasn’t as if Tripp was some stranger with dubious intentions. Like the indignant bride slung over his shoulder, he was one of their own, a hard worker, decent to the core—even if he had been a little wild in his youth and not much of a churchgoer.

He’d served his country, honorably and in a time of war, too, when the stakes were high. In places like Mustang Creek, things like that mattered.

Oakley, on the other hand, hometown boy though he was and from a prominent family into the bargain, barely registered a blip on the public-opinion meter, one way or the other. Still more kid than man, he’d never exhibited signs of even modest ambition, partied all through college and, most damning of all, forged himself a reputation for always taking the easy route.

He wasn’t hated, but he wasn’t liked, either.

When the locals thought about Oakley at all, it was usually to wonder what in creation the Stevens girl, an otherwise intelligent and exceptionally pretty one at that, saw in the guy. She was nice, in addition to her other favorable qualities and, in the town’s opinion, could’ve had just about any eligible man she took a liking to.

At that point in his mental wanderings, Junie snapped Spence back to the here and now with a soft, wistful “Isn’t it romantic? How Tripp and Hadleigh finally ended up together, even after everything that happened way back when?”

Spence adjusted his hat, frowning. “Romantic?” Just hearing the word, let alone saying it aloud, made him a little nervous, although he wouldn’t have admitted as much. Sure, okay, he was glad for the newlyweds—Tripp and Hadleigh wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, and they were obviously meant for each other. They’d traveled separate trails, long and lonely ones mostly, before their paths finally crossed again and, after some fuss and fury, decided to buckle down and forge the kind of relationship that can ride out practically anything.

And if anybody, anywhere, deserved happily-ever-after, it was those two.

Still, as far as Spence was concerned, Tripp and Hadleigh were the exception, not the rule. He felt what he always did when a buddy got married—a certain bittersweet relief that he hadn’t been the groom, standing up in front of God and everybody, vowing to hang in there, for better or for worse and all the rest of it.

In the event that things wound up on the “for better” side of the equation, great. Bring on the house with the picket fence, the regular sex and the crop of kids that usually followed.

But what if “for worse” was the name of the game? And let’s face it, the statistics definitely indicated that the odds of success were somewhere around 50/50. For Spence’s money, a man might as well make advance reservations at the Heartbreak Hotel—at least that way, he’d have someplace to go when the glow wore off and the crap hit the fan.

Room for one, please, and no definite checkout date.

He liked women and made no bones about it, but his reputation had gotten out of control because he didn’t typically stick around after a date or two. There were reasons—one reason, actually, and she had a name—but whose business was that, anyway?

Clearly no optimist when it came to matters of the heart, Spence didn’t make commitments if he could avoid it. He was considered a ladies’ man, even a womanizer, and if that perception wasn’t entirely accurate, so be it. Nobody needed to know about the side of himself he went to great lengths to hide—or that he was essentially incapable of breaking a promise, no matter how stupid that promise might be farther down the road. Come hell or high water, he wouldn’t—couldn’t—be the one to call it quits.

His own father had bailed on the family early on, when things got rocky, and the last thing Spence wanted was to follow in the old man’s footsteps. He couldn’t help sharing Judd Hogan’s DNA, obviously, but the rest of it was a matter of choice.

If the woman he’d married ever wanted a divorce, he wouldn’t try to stop her, wouldn’t harass her or anything like that. But he knew this much about himself: he’d be half again as stubborn to make the first move. Not only that, but he’d know, deep down, that forcing somebody’s hand was bound to leave him feeling like a coward.

He was almost grateful when Junie brought him up short again. She touched his arm, and there was an impish sparkle in her eyes and a got-your-number slant to her mouth.

“What?” Spence asked, looking and sounding more irritated than he really felt and taking care to keep his voice down. On the other side of the room, Estes and Radner sat with their thick noggins bent over their keyboards, fingers tapping industriously away. Spence figured they were probably playing shoot-’em-up video games or updating their profiles on some social-media website rather than checking law-enforcement sites for all-points bulletins and other information of interest to dedicated cops everywhere, as they no doubt wanted him to believe.

Neither scenario, of course, meant their ears weren’t pitched in his and Junie’s direction, in case a tidbit of gossip drifted their way, something they could take home to their young and talkative wives. Although there was no truth to the rumor that he and Junie had been having an on-again, off-again love affair for years, it was out there and circulating, just the same.

Junie’s smile turned downright mischievous. They’d been friends, the two of them, long before they’d become coworkers, and she could read him like a road sign. She liked to remind him of this often.

They’d buddied up, he and Junie, way back when Spence’s mother had dumped him on her sister-in-law’s doorstep when he was nine, loudly declaring that enough was enough, by God, and she was through being a parent, through being the responsible one, through making all the decisions and all the sacrifices. Done, kaput, over it, fed up, finished.

Kathy Hogan was never the same after Spence’s dad ditched her for another woman—younger and thinner, of course—though the truth was, she hadn’t exactly been the nurturing type even before the divorce. To her credit, Kathy had made a few half-hearted attempts at parenting after that initial drop-off at his aunt Libby’s place, reappearing periodically to gather up her young son and haul him, over Libby’s protests and his own, “home” to Virginia. But she’d never really gotten the hang of mothering, for all her fretful efforts, and sooner rather than later, Spence always ended up back in Mustang Creek.

When Judd and the new wife were killed in a boating accident three years after they got married, something in Spence’s mom had evidently died right along with them. At Libby’s insistence, she’d stopped hauling him from one place to another, the only bright spot in an otherwise dark time.

With a sigh, he pushed away the memories of that initial parting, although he knew they’d be back, soon and with a vengeance. Just when he thought he had it handled, squared it all away in his mind, the whole sad scenario would ambush him again.

If it hadn’t been for Libby, his father’s oldest sister, and for Junie, who’d lived down the block and appointed herself Spence’s new best friend, he might have run off in his teens. It wasn’t like it hadn’t crossed his mind.

End result: he didn’t have a whole lot of faith in marriage. He liked women, no question, but maybe his trust in them was more than a little compromised.

Ya think, Einstein?

He set his jaw briefly before meeting Junie’s silent challenge with a glare. “I’m out of here,” he told her gruffly. “If you need me—do your best not to—I’ll be over at the Moose Jaw. After that I plan to go straight home, do the chores, rustle up some grub and then sleep until I damn well feel like waking up.” He turned, adjusting his hat again as he moved, and stopped long enough to fling a narrow-eyed glance at the pair of deputies. “There’s a town out there,” he reminded them, indicating its presence with a motion of one hand. “If you two can work a little patrol time into your busy schedules, I would appreciate the effort and so would the taxpayers. We’ve had those robberies lately. I think some visibility would not hurt this department.”

Instantly flustered, Radner and Estes clattered and jingled into action, grabbing keys and gear and beating feet for the exit. Chorusing a hurried “yes, sir,” they nearly collided with each other in the rush to get out there and protect truth, justice and the American way.

Presto, they were invisible, which was how Spence preferred them to be, at least most of the time.

“You enjoy watching those poor guys scramble like a pair of idiots,” Junie observed, amused, from her post behind the desk.

Spence smiled, looked back at his friend. “Yeah,” he agreed affably. “I do. Guess all this power goes to my head.” A pause. “See you around.”

Junie’s stock response was not if I see you first, but the phone rang just then, so her reply was a distracted, “See you,” instead, followed by a business-like, “Mustang Creek Police Department. How can I help you?”

Spence didn’t wait for a rundown, since anything he really needed to know could be relayed to him in nanoseconds via his cell phone or the state-of-the-art communications system wired into his truck. Anyhow, genuine emergencies were blessedly rare in this neck of the woods; most incoming calls had to do with stranded cats, scary noises coming from an attic or a basement, routine fender benders, inconsiderate neighbors blocking somebody else’s driveway or playing their music too loudly, sometimes parents fretting about teenagers who should’ve been home hours before and weren’t. The duty officers ought to be up to handling any of the normal problems.

But the robberies had him mightily bothered. They were definitely not business as usual in this quiet town. It disturbed him that the thieves seemed to know exactly where to go. When he reached the police station parking lot, said deputies were already pulling out in their spiffy city-owned SUVs, one headed east, one west.

Spence grinned. He’d handpicked both Radner and Estes from a whole passel of fresh-from-the-academy applicants, six months before, when the mayor and the town council increased his budget. They were good cops, he reflected, arriving at his blue extended-cab pickup, and they’d be even better ones in time, when they’d logged in more hours on the job. They certainly had potential.

He got into his truck, flipped on the headlights, started the engine, glanced ruefully at the glowing blue screen of the computer affixed to the dashboard and then rolled toward the Moose Jaw Tavern, out on the edge of town. Yep, he would have preferred to go straight home, do what needed doing, and crash for the night. After all, he was officially off duty for the rest of the weekend, and he’d earned some downtime.

Still, as best man, he’d be expected to put in an appearance, however brief, at the after-wedding party. Spence knew Tripp wouldn’t have cared if he skipped the festivities—by now, the brand-new husband would be making red-hot love to his red-hot wife, the lucky SOB. Mustang Creek’s long-standing post-nuptial traditions had to be the furthest thing from the man’s mind right now, and who could blame him?

Spence felt a nebulous pang of—whatever—in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t explore it.

Passing the Moose Jaw without stopping wasn’t an option, he decided glumly. If he didn’t show up, some of the gossips might invent a few fanciful reasons to explain his absence. That he, Spence, had been in love with Hadleigh, for instance, his friendship with Tripp notwithstanding. That he’d kept it together during the ceremony, and put up a good front at the reception afterward, too, but now that the deed was done, he’d made himself scarce. Gone home to lick his wounds.

All bullshit, of course. He liked Hadleigh, liked her a lot. And she was certainly easy on the eyes, no denying that.

There’d never been any kind of spark between them, though. Not on either side. When that rumor had emerged, he’d been extremely annoyed. It was even more ridiculous than the one about Junie. At one time, he’d played fast and loose with the ladies, but if anyone looked closely, maybe they’d realize that the reason there’d been so many was that he hadn’t really been involved with any of them. Even his friendship with Trudy Reinholt was exactly that, a friendship. Until she’d begun to expect more than he was willing to offer. More than he could offer...

So yes, he’d show his face at the Moose Jaw, make it clear that he wasn’t pining for a lost love.

Besides, he was the chief of police, off duty or not. It was his job to keep the peace, and to do that, he needed to get a read on the crowd. The wedding guests, well, they were sensible people for the most part, all of them friends of the bride or groom or both. But this was Saturday night, so the regulars were sure to be around, along with a few tourists. In Spence’s experience, emotions ran higher on sentimental occasions like weddings or holidays or funerals—any event with a lot of symbolism attached. Throw in a little alcohol and just about anything could happen.

Soon enough, the Moose Jaw was in sight, and it was definitely jumping. Cars, pickups, motorcycles, ten-speed bikes, any rig with wheels, short of little red wagons and skateboards, crowded the gravel lot. There was no evident method to the madness, either—the vehicles were parked at odd angles, as though drivers and passengers alike had abandoned them in a sudden panic. The overall effect was chaotic, like a mess of dominoes dumped out of the box.

If the patrons inside had been in that much of a rush to start swilling beer, Spence speculated wearily, what kind of shape would they be in by closing time?

He sighed as he got out of the truck, locking it behind him. By now, he’d been up just shy of twenty-four hours, having put in a double shift on Friday, before attending Tripp’s bachelor party. He was bone-weary and ravenous, too, since he’d had nothing but wedding food since last night’s pizza—a slice of cake, a handful of those dainty pastel mints, and a smoked salmon “sandwich” about the size of a silver dollar.

He needed protein, preferably in the form of a thick steak, medium rare, and after feeding a couple of critters—one horse, one dog—a long, hot shower. After that, God willing, he could fall facedown on his bed and sleep.

Even with a plan in place, such as it was, Spence felt faintly anxious.

His black-and-white mutt, Harley, in whom a number of mysterious breeds converged, would be watching the road for him, perched vulture-style on the back of the living room couch, peering through the picture window and fogging up the glass with dog breath while he kept his vigil.

The stone-gray gelding, called Reb in deference to Spence’s Southern heritage, was content enough, he figured, grazing in the pasture beside the barn, enjoying the pleasures of summer. Still, horses were social creatures by nature, whether they were wild or tame, and all of them needed company.

With these things occupying his mind, Spence was tempted to breeze right out of town, back to his ranch, pretending he’d never planned to stop in at the Moose Jaw in the first place.

Instead, and with considerable resignation, he walked across the parking lot. The bar had been in business since frontier days, when it was a bona fide Old West saloon, and the building listed slightly to one side, like a drunk trying to look sober. The roof sloped, streaks of rust marked the presence of every nail, and the never-painted wall boards had weathered to a grungy gray.

He’d stay for ten minutes, max, Spence told himself, resolute. He’d see and be seen, say howdy where a verbal exchange was required, size things up and, finally, hit the road.

Dutifully, he opened the door.

I’ll stay for ten minutes, he promised himself again. No more.

* * *

THE MUSIC ROARING out of the jukebox was too loud, and the Moose Jaw was too crowded.

In Melody Nolan’s opinion, that is. Everyone else seemed to be having a grand old time, whooping it up, laughing and dancing and consuming plenty of cold beer.

Oh, there was reason to celebrate, all right. Hadleigh and Tripp were finally married, and that was practically a miracle, given how stubborn those two were. And Melody could comfort herself with the knowledge that the marriage pact, a secret plan that she and Hadleigh and Bex had agreed upon and set in motion a few months before was actually working—one wedding down, two to go.

Melody fingered the tiny gold horsehead on her bracelet, a symbol of triumph, not just for Hadleigh, the first bride, but for herself and Bex, as well. She’d personally designed and crafted the sparkling talismans, one for each of the three friends, and this initial charm represented Hadleigh’s relationship with Tripp, a rancher and born cowboy.

So far, so good.

Melody was wildly happy for Hadleigh, BFF extraordinaire. It was probably just fatigue—along with her very sore feet—that made her feel forlorn at the moment, unusually fractious and on the verge of tears.

Physical discomfort exacerbated this sorry state of affairs, but Melody didn’t dare kick off the spiked heels she’d been wearing for six-plus hours as one of Hadleigh’s two bridesmaids.

If she did, regret would soon overshadow relief, because her poor tootsies would puff up to three times their normal size, in which case it would be impossible to get those wretched shoes on again. Furthermore, Melody had no intention of going barefoot for the rest of the evening, since the Moose Jaw’s sawdust floor was filthy and, besides, some overenthusiastic dancer might step on her toes.

So she suffered, though not in silence.

When her other best friend forever, Bex, short for Becca, Stuart came back to their sticky-topped table, laughing and breathless after yet another Texas two-step with yet another cowboy, Melody glowered at her.

Bex, clad in an elegant yellow dress, identical to the one Melody wore, registered the look and made a face in response.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” Bex half shouted in order to be heard over the blare of the music and the general hoot and holler of the crowd packing the seediest watering hole in Mustang Creek, Wyoming.

“Why aren’t you limping?” Melody countered. Bex’s shoes, like her dress, were duplicates of her own. Yellow, pointed at the toes and stilt-like. They were definitely out of place in their surroundings. Cowboy boots were the footwear du jour.

Bex’s sigh was visible rather than audible, because of the din, and the horsehead charm on her bracelet winked in the light when she lifted one hand to push a lock of artfully streaked hair from her forehead. “Honestly, Mel,” she said. Melody was reading her lips. “Do you have to be such a party pooper?”

Mildly chagrined, Melody once again touched the charm on her own bracelet. “I’m happy,” she retorted unhappily. “Okay?”

Bex merely shook her head. The woman was a fitness guru, for heaven’s sake, and she lived in athletic shoes, not three-inch heels. So why wasn’t she in pain? Those toned calves, no doubt, gained from giving classes at one of her fitness centers. “That’s not exactly convincing.”

Just let me welter in my self-pity. In the midst of that unbecoming thought, Melody felt an odd, heated charge tingle between the tips of her fingers and shoot up her arm, as if from the charm itself. Startled, she released it quickly, forgetting all about the exchange with Bex, sitting up a little straighter and glancing instinctively toward the bar’s entrance.

And there he was. Spence Hogan, the only man who had ever broken her heart.

Not just hers, of course. Pretty much any attractive female he came into contact with fell into that category. He should have a sign around his neck—Ol’ Love ʼem and Leave ʼem. Apparently you weren’t breathing if you were female and lived in this town and didn’t want to snag a date with him. By all accounts, many had. But she tried hard to plug her gossip ears when it came to him.

Spence was crossing the threshold, hat in one hand, standing so tall he almost had to duck to keep from bumping his head on the door frame.

It shouldn’t have been possible, but he looked even better in regular clothes than he had in the elegantly fitted tux he’d worn to the wedding. The guy gave a new meaning to the term “best man,” Melody thought peevishly. Her rising irritation was due to being constantly thrown into his company for the past two days. Hell, she’d had to sit next to him at the rehearsal dinner! If Tripp’s father, Jim, and his new wife hadn’t arranged that particular event, she might’ve been really annoyed at that seating snafu, but Jim was a sweetheart, and his wife probably didn’t realize she and Spence had a past. Besides, it was logical, since she was a bridesmaid and he was the best man.

Best man.

Best at what?Looking good? Making love? Shattering dreams?

Melody was thrown by the mere sight of Spence, which was weird because not only had they been forced into close proximity by the wedding ceremony, they’d also lived in the same small community for most of their lives. Inevitably, they ran into each other fairly often, despite her efforts to steer clear.

Nonetheless, her nerves shorted out, like an electrical circuit on overload.

Why, she wondered, silently frantic, couldn’t she just look away, render Spencer Hogan invisible, pretend he didn’t exist, as she usually managed to do?

No answer came to mind—and this development alone was maddening, since Melody always had a ready supply of answers. Except when it concerned Spence. Spence, with that easy, confident cowboy’s stride of his, and the vivid, new-denim blue of his eyes; if she hadn’t known better, she would’ve sworn he wore tinted contacts. The color was striking even from the far side of a crowded bar. So were his dark hair and his broad shoulders, the way his jeans fit his lean hips and long legs... Somehow, these familiar elements never failed to take her by surprise.

Spence had been about thirteen years old that memorable summer, when he first appeared on Melody’s personal radar, although he’d been around for a while. She’d been just six at the time, already thick as thieves with Bex and Hadleigh, all of them due to enter first grade in the fall.

Friends with Hadleigh’s big brother, Will, and Tripp Galloway, Spence hung around the Stevenses’ house a lot in those days, shooting hoops in the driveway with other boys from the neighborhood, playing rhythm guitar in Will and Tripp’s garage band.

One day that summer, though, he’d definitely caught her attention, which started a serious case of hero worship.

It wasn’t anything more complicated than the chain coming off her bicycle, causing her to wipe out in the street. He happened to be arriving at Will’s just then and jumped off his own battered bike. He dashed over, helping her up and examining her scraped knee and elbow, not one teasing word about the tears rolling down her face. Instead, he used the edge of his T-shirt to wipe them away. Then he brought her inside and delivered her into the caring hands of Hadleigh’s grandmother. When Melody came back out, the damage duly cleaned and bandaged, her bike was fixed and sitting by the garage.

“Hey, you okay?” he’d asked, as if he actually cared about the answer.

When she nodded, Tripp said, “I adjusted your chain. It was really loose.”

Will added, “The last time I wrecked like that, I’m pretty sure I cried, too. Don’t feel like a baby or anything.”

Then they went back to their basketball game.

That was it.

But both Hadleigh and Bex were impressed. Normally, in their experience, the boys didn’t even notice their existence.

Outwardly, nothing had changed after that day. Will and Tripp tolerated Hadleigh and her two sidekicks with benign indifference, and Spence followed their lead.

Hadleigh, Bex and Melody, on the other hand, shared a secret new awareness that nothing would ever be quite the same. They giggled and whispered among themselves, trying to unravel the mystery of this new fascination, but years passed before they finally succeeded.

Now, after all these years, Hadleigh and Tripp were deeply in love, the forever kind, and as of that very afternoon, joined in holy wedlock.

Coincidence? Probably not, Melody mused with a sense of philosophical awareness—undoubtedly brought on by the events of the day—as she took a sip of the beer some cowboy had bought her. She really believed this wedding was the culmination of something that had started when they were just kids.

The fairy-tale aspects of their shared history might have fostered legends if Bex and Will had grown up and fallen for each other, like Hadleigh and Tripp, but Will had been killed in Afghanistan and, while Bex had dated a lot, especially in college, she’d never met The One.

As for Melody and Spence, they’d had a summer fling once upon a time before she realized he wasn’t interested in permanence, and she’d been starry-eyed with dreams of a future together—a cozy house, children and all the rest. In the end, though, she’d made a complete fool of herself by blurting out a marriage proposal, one perfect night in July, with the last of the Independence Day fireworks still dribbling from the sky. And she would never forget—God knew, she’d tried—the expression on Spence’s face as he prepared his answer.

Instead of flashing that patented grin of his, instead of saying “yes, let’s do it,” the way Melody had expected him to, Spence had given her a figurative pat on the head and then, very gently, explained that he wasn’t ready to make that kind of commitment, and neither was she. She wasn’t even through college yet, Spence had reminded her, wounding her with kindness.

It had taken her years to recover. She took another sip of tepid beer as she grimly remembered that night.

Yes, he’d claimed, when she’d tearfully demanded whether he loved her, he did care for her, very much as a matter of fact. And that was one more reason he wasn’t going to be the one to derail her career, maybe even her whole life, before she’d had a chance to go places, figure things out, decide what she really wanted.

Before Melody’s personal universe disappeared into a black hole, she and Spence had spent virtually every spare moment together. Gradually, they’d grown closer and then closer still, until they’d finally made love, sweet and slow, under a star-spangled sky the first time, and in every private place they could find after that.

Oh, yes. Melody had loved Spencer Hogan with all that she had and all that she was.

Silly girl. She’d actually believed he loved her right back.

Until the breakup, of course. Spence had immediately consoled himself with Junie McFarlane, and Melody had moped around the house until it was time to go back to college in late August. There she was like a sleepwalker, distracted and depressed. Aware that things had to change, she’d switched her major from pre-law to fine arts, since she’d always loved shape and texture and color, and when that didn’t help, she hid out in the dorm, skipping classes and meals, rarely sleeping through the night.

Melody’s mother was beside herself with worry. After years of widowhood, she’d just remarried and was planning a move to Casper. Realizing she was causing distress to someone she loved—even knowing that she was keeping her mother from enjoying her newfound happiness—couldn’t cure the blues, apparently.

Left to her own devices, she would surely have crashed and burned.

Fortunately for her, however, Bex and Hadleigh had refused to let her self-destruct. They’d improvised an amateur intervention, the two of them, confronting Melody in the cramped little room the three of them shared all through college. Melody had balked at first, demanding that they leave her alone, but they were as stubborn as she was and simply wouldn’t give up.

They’d badgered her all one Saturday, until she would’ve agreed to practically anything just to get five minutes of peace and quiet. Knowing they’d finally cracked her armor, they’d pestered her to get out of the pajamas she’d been wearing for days on end, take a hot shower and put on her favorite outfit.

After that, Hadleigh and Bex had dragged Melody out of the dorm and off campus, winding up at the nearest mall, in one of those snip-and-dash salons, where a very gay guy with a pink Mohawk and a disturbing number of body piercings ordered her into a chair and proceeded to trim and fluff and spray her unkempt hair until she looked almost like her old self again.

Miraculous as it seemed, that was only the beginning of the Save Melody from Herself campaign.

Next, Hadleigh and Bex had declared that they were starving, and all three of them trooped over to the food court, with its plethora of unhealthy dining choices, and agreed, after some discussion, to share orders of yakisoba, chicken teriyaki and egg rolls.

Then, since the multiscreen theater was right there, and they’d all been fortified by a hot meal, they decided to take in a movie or two.

In the end, the total was three—two chick flicks and an apocalyptic action film.

The next day, she’d gone back to class, and for weeks afterward, Bex and Hadleigh had helped her catch up on the work she’d let slide.

Remembering all that in mere moments, Melody smiled to herself, there at the grubby table in the Moose Jaw Tavern, despite her aching feet and admittedly bad attitude.

The whole experience was ancient history now, she reflected, still watching Spence, still unable to stop watching him, as he made his way across the sawdust floor, pausing here and there to exchange a friendly word or a handshake with somebody or to laugh at some joke.

He approached the bar, spoke to the man behind it, but came away without a drink. Spence rarely indulged in alcohol; he’d told her once that it smoothed away the rough edges a little too well, whatever that meant.

At last, and with enormous effort, Melody finally managed to tear her eyes away from him, her face burning at the difficulty, and when she shifted her gaze in the opposite direction, it was to catch Bex grinning in that knowing way best friends have.

Melody grimaced at her.

Bex, unruffled as usual, laughed and shook her head, rising when yet another cowboy asked her to dance.

“Don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you get back,” Melody yelled over the music.

“Suit yourself,” Bex yelled back, good-natured to the end.

Melody was beginning to feel like a real wallflower, which was a stretch, considering how often she’d been invited to dance since she and Bex had arrived an hour or so before. After a few polite refusals, the invitations had stopped coming, and that had been okay with her and with her screaming feet.

She’d had, as her grandfather liked to say, all the fun she could stand.

Time to vamoose.

The waitress had been running a tab, and Melody wanted to pay her share, so she elbowed her way through to the cash register at the far end of the bar, searching her little yellow purse—part of the bridesmaids’ outfit—for her credit card.

She settled up and then limped toward the door, propped open to admit the summer breezes, and scanned the demolition derby in the parking lot for her car.

It was blocked in on all sides.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered, faced with two equally unappealing choices—go back inside the Moose Jaw, hunt down the bar owner and convince him to find the patrons responsible for the dilemma and get them to move their vehicles—or she could walk home.

“Is there a problem?” The voice, all too familiar, took her off guard.

She turned her head and, sure enough, Spence was standing there, watching her, his face in shadow and his expression, therefore, unreadable. Well, not completely. Was that a grin just barely tugging at one corner of his mouth?

“Yes,” Melody said stiffly. “There is a problem.” She sucked in a breath and continued in a rush of words. “In fact, there are several problems. First of all, I want to go home, and I can’t because my car is literally surrounded. Furthermore, my feet are killing me—”

Melody put on the brakes, stopped talking.

Spence, frowning as he listened, surveyed the lot full of rigs that might have been parked by half-trained baboons, and sighed. She was unprepared for the impact of his blue eyes when he looked back at her face then slid a leisurely glance down the length of her body to her shoes, which weren’t suitable for walking through gravel, let alone making the long hike home. The grin he’d probably been trying to suppress broke loose at last.

“I don’t know how you can walk in those things,” he remarked. “And, no offense, but that dress makes you look like an inverted daffodil. A wilted one. I’ll bet it’s stylish or something, but I’m not positive yellow is your color. The only good point is that it shows off one leg. I like that. You have nice legs.”

Melody rolled her eyes then snapped, “Well, thanks a whole heap for nothing.”

“Just my opinion,” Spence said. “I wasn’t kidding about the leg part.”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion of my dress or my shoes or my legs,” she said, more than cranky now. When would this damnable night be over?

Spence’s response was a low chuckle, and the sound was so thoroughly masculine it made her heart pound. “Come to think of it,” he drawled, “you didn’t.” He paused, and in an instant, his expression changed. He seemed tired, no longer amused. “I’m headed for home myself, and I’d be glad to drop you off at your place.” A beat of silence. “Your car will be all right here till morning, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

By then, Melody’s heart had shinnied up into the back of her throat, but she managed to croak out a reply, anyway. “I don’t think—I wouldn’t—I mean—”

Spence’s mouth twitched again, and his eyes twinkled as he watched her.

Melody wanted to punch him.

She also wanted, perversely, to kiss him.

She wanted to...

Damn it all to hell, she didn’t know what she wanted.

Typically, Spence didn’t ask. Instead, without any warning at all, he swept Melody up into his arms and proceeded to carry her across the parking lot, his strides purposeful.

“What,” Melody gasped, after a considerable delay and with significant effort, “are you doing?”

“That ought to be obvious,” Spence replied reasonably. “I’m hauling you to my truck so I can drive you home. It’s not as if you could cover much ground under your own power—not in those ridiculous shoes, anyhow.”

“Hauling me?”

He nodded matter-of-factly. “You look thin enough, but I’d say you’re on the hefty side. I’ve lugged around calves that weighed less.”

Melody seethed, stung, even as something primitive and hungry unfurled inside her. “That was a terriblething to say!” she protested. “Hefty?”

They’d reached Spence’s truck, and he set her on the passenger-side running board, holding her in place with one hand while he extracted his keys from the pocket of his jeans. After easing her to one side, he opened the door and gestured for her to get in.

“Sorry,” he finally said, without conviction. When she didn’t move, he just put her in the truck’s cab.

Melody’s backside landed hard on the seat, and she was too stunned by his audacity to say another word. Or to climb right out of the truck.

Spence paused to consider some passing thought, rubbing his chin as he apparently pondered. His beard was already coming in, Melody noticed, oddly distracted.

“I guess I can be fairly tactless,” he conceded. “Hefty might have been the wrong word. But I did apologize, didn’t I?”

Melody found some remnant of her voice, enough to call him a name.

Spence shook his head in apparent amazement, but Melody knew that lethal grin of his was lurking just out of sight and might reappear at any moment, a dazzling flash that would leave her temporarily blinded.

“I should’ve known better than to try and do you a favor,” he said with a long-suffering sigh. Before Melody could react, he added a brusque, “Fasten your seat belt.” With that, he slammed the door, came around to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.

If she hadn’t been fresh out of steam and in no mood to cripple herself for life by trying to walk home in the heels from hell, she would’ve told Spence Hogan what he could do with his favor. After that, she would have pushed the door open again and left him sitting there in his gas-guzzling phallic symbol of a truck to think what he liked.

It was a nice fantasy.

Melody folded her arms and fumed until they were out of the parking lot and on the highway. Then—she just couldn’t help it—she muttered, “You started it.”

Spence threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter.

“Well, you did,” Melody insisted. Why couldn’t she shut up, leave well enough alone? After all, her house was less than five minutes away. Surely she could have held her tongue that long.

But no.

Grinning, Spence turned to look at her. “What’s so funny?” Melody asked.

“You,” he answered succinctly. “It’s really true what they say.”

“Which is?”

“Some things never change. Neither do some people.”


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_e61f1614-ada2-5c3a-8f28-289d456b3b98)

BY SPENCE’S RUEFUL calculations, the whole fiasco took less than ten minutes to unfold, from start to finish.

The instant he’d brought the truck to a stop at the curb in front of Melody’s house, and before he could get out of the rig and walk around to open her door, she’d bolted, making her gimpy way across the sidewalk without a wave of the hand or even a backward glance—never mind saying goodbye or thank you.

Since no self-respecting man drove a woman home after dark and then just sat behind the wheel like a lump and watched while she hiked to her door, Spence was on the move in a heartbeat.

He’d caught up to Melody at the gate, when the pain in her feet finally reined her in. She’d paused, resting her right hand on one of the newel posts to keep her balance while she used her left to pry off her shoes, one and then the other, grimacing with relief. For a moment, Spence thought she might pitch the things into the nearby bushes, but in the end, she didn’t.

Instead, she tilted her chin upward, met Spence’s gaze straight on, and said tersely, “You can leave anytime now.” She gestured in the direction of the house, the offending stilettos waggling with the motion. “I hardly think I need a police escort to get to my own front door.”

Stubbornly silent, Spence had opened the gate, taken Melody by the elbow and squired her onto the porch. She hadn’t objected, not verbally, anyway, but she’d looked mad enough to bite off the business end of a shovel.

Spence had waited, without comment, until she’d fished a key from her impossibly small handbag and thrust it into the lock with so much force that he wouldn’t have been surprised if the thing snapped in two.

Fortunately, that didn’t happen.

As soon as Melody was over the threshold, she’d favored Spence with one last glare and slammed the door in his face.

At the memory, a muscle bunched in Spence’s jaw, and he ground the truck’s gears as he left the town behind, speeding up the second he hit the open road. With a conscious effort, he unclamped his molars and relaxed his rigid shoulders.

All right, yeah. He’d put his foot in his mouth a couple of times, back there at the Moose Jaw—he’d never been able to think straight in close proximity to Melody—but he’d said he was sorry, after all, and he’d meant it. Mostly.

Shouldn’t his apology, however halfhearted, have counted for something?

If the woman hadn’t been contrary to the marrow of her bones, she’d have met him halfway, or at least made a stab at civility, if only because he’d obviously been trying to help her out. Anybody else would’ve cut him some slack for his good intentions.

Of course, Melody wasn’t anybody else, she was her usual hardheaded, cussed self. A casual observer might have thought he was fixing to kidnap her, the way she’d carried on.

Irritated beyond all common sense—Spence was tired and he was hungry and that combination virtually guaranteed a bad attitude—he flung his hat onto the passenger seat and shoved splayed fingers through his hair.

He hadn’t improved matters, he reflected, by tossing the little hellcat over his shoulder and lugging her to his truck, either. This was real life, present tense, complete with new and often puzzling rules for any male-female interaction—not some vintage John Wayne-Maureen O’Hara movie.

No question, Spence reasoned grimly; he’d acted in haste, and he would surely repent at leisure.

And yet he’d had to do something to break the standoff, didn’t he? Otherwise, he and Melody would probably still be standing in that parking lot, bickering like a couple of damn fools, with no end in sight.

Just when Spence was beginning to think he might be getting some adult perspective on the events of the evening, another rush of frustration came over him, and he was right back at square one.

He simmered for at least five more minutes then put a foot to the clutch and shifted again. By degrees, he began to calm down. He recalled the way Melody had looked, standing in the bug-specked yellow glow of her porch light, with her makeup worn away in some places and smudged in others. He remembered how she’d bitten down on her lower lip like she did whenever she was stressed out. And how her hair, her gorgeous honey-colored hair, seemed ready to come unpinned of its own accord and tumble down around her shoulders.

Just picturing that made his groin tighten.

He sighed.

Melody was always beautiful, no matter what, Spence admitted silently, with a sad twitch of his mouth that didn’t stretch far enough to classify as a smile.

The ache between his legs migrated upward, nestling in the uncharted territory hidden somewhere behind his heart, a slow, familiar throb of sorrow and regret.

He’d lost her.

That wasn’t exactly breaking news. Whatever he and Melody had had together—or almost had—was part of the distant past. At times, though, it rose up out of nowhere and seared him.

Like tonight.

Spence clenched his back teeth, determined to tough out the rush of emotion that had ambushed him, partly because he knew he didn’t have a choice and partly because that was what he did. He endured, knowing all too well that resisting these particular feelings was futile and would merely deepen and prolong the misery.

Again, he sighed.

Since both Spence and Melody made every effort to avoid each other, the figurative bodies stayed buried. Invariably, though, some special occasion rolled around, like their friends’ wedding that afternoon, and all the tattered specters rose like howls riding a night wind, reminding him that the dreams and plans he’d once cherished were over for good.

This, too, he reminded himself grimly, would pass.

Sooner or later.

So he just drove.

Mercifully, his mood improved a notch or two when the outlines of his house and barn came into sight. They weren’t anything fancy, those structures, but they had good, solid bones and so much history they’d probably grown roots over the years. Deep ones, too, stretching far into the earth, gnarled and sturdy, anchoring themselves to the land.

Spence parked behind the dark house then reclaimed his hat from the passenger seat and got out. The instant the soles of his boots struck the fine Wyoming dirt, he felt the familiar mantle of peace settle over him.

He was home.

He smiled at the sounds heralding his return from the outside world—his gelding, Reb, nickered a greeting from the nearby pasture, all but invisible in the darkness, while Harley tuned up a one-dog orchestra, yipping with joyful anticipation behind the kitchen door a few yards away.

“Hold on,” Spence called out to both critters. “I’m on my way.”

* * *

MELODY’S THREE CATS, Ralph, Waldo and Emerson, were sitting in a tidy row when she hobbled into the kitchen, barefoot and vowing never to put on high heels again, no matter who was getting married, herself included.

Not that there was much danger of that, considering the state of her love life.

“Reoooow,” the cats chorused in perfect unison.

Despite appearances, Melody knew the animals hadn’t formed a welcoming committee—this was a protest.

She laughed, still shaken from her most recent encounter with Spence but recovering fast, now that he’d gone and her shoeless feet were free to swell as they liked. “Spare me the drama,” she chided her pets, padding over to the counter, taking a favorite mug from the wooden rack on the wall next to the sink. “I know I’m late serving your supper, but I don’t feel guilty about it, okay? One of my best friends tied the knot today.” Melody paused to smile, happy because Hadleigh was happy, and wasn’t that proof things worked out, at least some of the time?

Melody filled the mug with water, dropped in an herbal tea bag—electric raspberry—and fired up the microwave.

The furry trio didn’t break rank, merely turning their heads her way instead, watching accusingly as Melody opened a can of cat food, took three small plates from the appropriate stack in the cupboard and divided the grub evenly.

In the meantime, the microwave whirred companionably.

The cats remained in formation while Melody, carrying their feast with the deftness of a veteran truck-stop waitress, delivered their evening meal.

They were an odd bunch, her regal and totally opinionated fuzz balls. Hadleigh and Bex said so often, and Melody had to agree. Littermates adopted from the local shelter a few years ago, they looked so much alike, right down to the last splotch of calico, that even she couldn’t tell them apart.

Interchangeable as they were, she reasoned, she might as well have named them all Bob. It would’ve been simpler.

Leaving the felines to their banquet, Melody walked out of the kitchen, down the nearby hallway and into her bedroom.

There, full of sleepy relief, she took off the dress, the snagged pantyhose and the scratchy slip, letting them fall in a heap on the floor. Then, in her bra and panties, she got a clean and well-worn nightshirt from a dresser drawer and headed for the shower.

She turned on the spigots, adjusted them until the water temperature was exactly right and stepped under the spray. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face back, standing still, savoring the bliss, as the last vestiges of her makeup washed away.

She reveled in the ordinary pleasure of being under her own roof again, alone, unobserved, free to be Melody rather than some public version of herself.

Her hair proved to be a problem—she had to shiver outside the shower long enough to remove the last few pins and brush out the snarls teased in that morning by a local hairdresser—but Melody managed the task and stepped back under the steamy, pelting flow. After a thorough shampoo and a lot of soaping and rinsing, she sighed, shut off the water and got out, wrapping herself in a large bath towel, sari-style.

When the mirror had defogged, she combed out her wet tresses—she didn’t have the energy to use the blow dryer, which meant she’d have to soak her head again in the morning to tame the beast, but that was fine with her. Tomorrow seemed years away.

On automatic pilot now, Melody brushed her teeth and wiped a few lingering smudges of mascara from beneath her eyes. Finally, she pulled on the nightshirt.

She left the bathroom to make her nightly rounds—all windows shut, every door locked, stove burners turned off—and congratulated herself silently for not thinking about Spence Hogan even once. It was a winning streak, a personal best; for almost half an hour, Melody reflected, her busy brain had remained Spence-free.

She gave a small sigh, deflated. He’d slipped right back into her thoughts, though.

So much for the winning streak.

When she reached the kitchen again, Melody noticed that the cat brigade had finished eating and wandered off to some other part of the house, probably her studio. They liked to sit unblinking on the fireplace mantel, so completely motionless that visitors sometimes mistook them for oversize knickknacks.

She smiled as she scooped up the empty plates, rinsed each one thoroughly and stashed them in the dishwasher. Then she dried her hands, crossed to the back door and peered at the dead bolt. She knew she’d locked it that morning, before leaving the house, but she’d been known to forget things, like everybody else.

Dutifully, Melody moved on to the next item on her mental agenda—making sure the front door was secured. She’d been pretty flustered after the encounter with Spence.

Then she examined each and every window.

Since she worked at home, and she’d never gotten around to having an air-conditioning system installed, she often kept three or four of them open during the day, hoping to catch any stray breeze that might have swept down from the snow-crowned peaks of the Grand Tetons.

The tour ended in Melody’s studio, her favorite part of the house.

The space, originally the living room, wasn’t huge, but it was a great place to work, with its strategically placed skylights, built-in bookshelves and the custom-made cabinets where she stored art supplies.

The tension seeped from her shoulders as she looked around. Some nights, unwilling to be parted from whatever project happened to be consuming her at the time, she actually slept in here, curled up on the long sofa, burrowed under the soft weight of a faded cotton coverlet, spinning straw into gold as she dreamed.

The cats, as she’d predicted, sat side by side on the wide mantel above the fireplace, impersonating statues. Thanks to the permanent claim they’d staked to the entire surface, Melody couldn’t keep framed photographs or a nice clock or any other decorative items there, as a normal person might. She shook her head, smiling, and turned to look at the design board that took up most of the opposite wall. Every inch bristled with sketches, appointment cards, snapshots, sticky notes scribbled with reminders and ideas for new pieces of jewelry, and glossy images of watches and pendants, rings and bracelets, torn from various magazines.

Melody would never have copied another artist’s work, but she liked to admire the really good stuff. Now and then, some aspect of a design sparked her own imagination and hurled her into a creative—okay, manic—frenzy that might last for hours or even days. She invariably emerged from these episodes with some new and totally original creation.

When she worked, she focused almost entirely on process rather than objectives. For Melody, the magic lay in the what-ifs, the little experiments, the sheer alchemy of transforming raw materials into something beautiful, timeless and utterly unique, a piece she hoped would be treasured and eventually passed down, generation after generation.

Tired though she felt, Melody was tempted to perch on the cushioned stool in front of her drafting table, open her sketchbook to a fresh page, pick up a pencil and see what emerged.

Get some sleep first, counseled her practical side.

Melody decided to take her own advice. Although she’d pulled many an all-nighter over the course of her artistic career, she did her best work after a good night’s rest.

It was time to hit the sheets.

Ralph, Waldo and Emerson, still sitting on the mantel, watched inscrutably as she passed, unmoving except for their eyeballs.

Pausing to flip the light switch before leaving the room, Melody smiled again. “Hadleigh and Bex are right,” she told them. “You’re not ordinary earth cats, you’re aliens.”

* * *

SPENCE’S INNER ALARM clock woke him promptly—and completely—at four the next morning, like it always did in the summertime. In the dead of winter, he usually made it to five before his eyes flew open and stayed that way, whether he’d gotten any real rest or not.

“Damn,” he muttered, sitting up, running the palms of both hands along his face. Another few hours of sleep, and he might have felt halfway human, but since staying in bed would be the classic losing battle, he tossed back the lightweight covers and set his feet on the floor.

Harley was stationed in the bedroom doorway, watching him with hopeful interest. The dog’s head was cocked to one side, and his ears were perked.

“What?” Spence asked. No way was he going to let that critter make him feel guilty; he’d set out an extra bowl of kibble the night before, along with a backup supply of water. He’d also remembered to unlatch the pet door, in case Harley needed a yard break during the night.

Harley responded with a cheery little yip and thumped the hardwood floor with his tail, barely able to contain his eagerness to follow up on whatever opportunities presented themselves.

Spence sighed, drawing a hand through his rumpled hair. Even if he hadn’t been hardwired to get up at the crack—hell, beforethat—the damn dog would probably have stared him awake.

He stood, shaking his head in pretended frustration, but the fact was, he couldn’t help grinning. Clearly, Harley knew that this wasn’t going to be a stay-at-home-and-wait kind of day, but a tag-along one instead, bursting with canine delights like riding shotgun in Spence’s truck, sticking to his boot heels like a burr, streaking through tall grass to keep up with Reb out on the range.

Didn’t matter to ol’ Harley where Spence went or what he did, whether he was on foot or in the saddle, as long as he got to play sidekick.

A man had to admire that sort of loyalty.

After a shave and a shower, Spence returned to the bedroom and opened a few bureau drawers in the hope that at least one set of clean clothes might have manifested itself when he wasn’t looking. No such luck.

With a towel around his waist, he made for the small laundry room off the kitchen, opened the dryer and pulled out a shirt. Yesterday’s jeans would have to do, but what the hell. He’d only worn them for a couple of hours the night before, and it wasn’t as if he’d been digging post holes or wrestling a roped calf to the ground at the time.

No, he thought. He’d just been wrestling a testy woman into his truck, that was all.

Maybe, Spence mused, he ought to apologize to Melody—again—for the hefty comment. He should have used muscular, but that probably wouldn’t have gone over well, either. Solid? Um, no. Considering her feminine grace, he was just surprised she wasn’t lighter, that was all. She must work out.

Nope. None of those possibilities would be deemed acceptable. Better to keep his distance, rather than risk stepping in it again.

Only that didn’t seem exactly right, either.

Weighing the decision in his mind, Spence opened the door and left it ajar, so Harley could go outside without having to shinny through the much smaller pet door. With freedom beckoning, the animal shot through the gap at bullet speed, as if he had a date with destiny.Spence, still wearing the towel, slung the shirt over his shoulder and put the coffee on before going back to his room. He scouted around for the jeans he’d discarded the night before, found them partway under the bed and yanked them on. Then he shrugged into the shirt, noting that it could have used a few licks with a hot iron.

Oh, well. In the bigger scheme of things, a few wrinkles wouldn’t matter. After all, he had the day off, and he wasn’t going anywhere fancy—just to the feed store on the outskirts of town, followed by a brief stop at the supermarket. Soon as he and Harley got back, he’d be saddling Reb and riding out to see how the fences were holding up.

He planned to put the incident with the prickly Ms. Nolan right out of his mind.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e54145c5-eb25-525f-a491-41f3a68e84e4)

MELODY STUBBED HER toe on the doorjamb trying to carry a filled cup and two art magazines into her studio. For some reason, one of the cats—she couldn’t be sure which—had decided to weave between her legs. The balancing act was an experiment in agility and she managed to stay upright, but just barely.

Gritting her teeth, she sacrificed one of her glossy periodicals to protect the guilty feline from a splash of hot coffee. Those pages would probably never come apart again. Thanks a lot.

“One day,” she warned all of them out loud, “I won’t be so graceful.”

The other two resident fuzz balls gazed blandly back at her from their perch on the mantel, and Melody got the distinct impression they wouldn’t have credited her with grace to begin with, and they were probably right. Cats had a way of saying things without actual articulation or even body language. Besides, they’d seen her doing yoga—they mimicked her movements—so they could have a point. All three of them were better at it.

Damn it, her feet still hurt. She should write a song, something like “The Broken Toe Blues.” Or “I LeftMy Arch in Mustang Creek.” Maybe it would top the charts, since almost every woman in the world could relate.

With a little grin and a sigh, Melody shook off the whimsical idea. She was a designer, not a songwriter, and besides, she didn’t have a smidge of musical talent.

Cozy in loose sweatpants and a shapeless T-shirt, she pulled out the chair at her worktable and got busy.

Or tried to, anyway.

After nearly three hours of dedicated—and largely fruitless—effort, she reluctantly faced reality. Her muse was on hiatus.

Damn. This was a big commission, a bib necklace set with precious stones for a picky client who’d collected the gems herself on various trips, and the design was hidden in a compartment in Melody’s brain, but it hadn’t emerged yet. Mrs. Arbuckle was infamously outspoken, so she really wanted to get it right or she’d hear about it, and not necessarily in a tactful way.

Melody was good and stuck—and that wasn’t her only problem.

Resting her forehead on one fist, she contemplated the unsavory options on her list. For starters, she probably owed Spence an apology.

Probably? Try definitely.

She’d been pretty rude to him, all things considered. Oh yeah, she’d been mad at his assumption that he could pick her up and cart her off to his truck like some Neanderthal in boots and a cowboy hat, but in the light of day, she couldn’t deny that he’d done her a favor. And because she’d been hungry and tired, and her feet were hurting like crazy, she’d been just plain ungracious.

Her grandmother, who had helped raise her, would not have approved of Melody’s behavior—or his, for that matter, although that was beside the point. And even though Grandma Jean wasn’t around to voice her opinion anymore, Melody swore she could feel it.

So yes, an apology was in order. Melody put down her drawing pen with a sigh. She knew from experience that the missing muse wouldn’t put in an appearance until she’d cleared her conscience.

“This is easy to fix,” she told the cats as she got to her feet, which were not back to normal but were at least safeguarded by a pair of soft, comfy shoes that would qualify as slippers if anyone wanted to get technical about it. “I’ll go there, talk to the man, tell him I appreciated that he wanted to help—even if he was crass about it.”

One of the fur faces—Melody was fairly sure it was Waldo, still gracing the mantel—yawned with obvious disinterest. She’d seen that expression before, and at the moment, she found it irritating. “Fine, she muttered. “I won’t bore you with the details. And I won’t say anything to him about being rude. Does that approach suit your royal highnesses?”

Waiting for an answer was pointless, of course. She just grabbed her purse—at least she was back to one that could hold more than a matchbox—intending to hoof it over to the Moose Jaw to pick up her car.

Halfway out the door, she stopped dead. The vehicle was sitting in her driveway. She blinked to make sure it wasn’t an optical illusion. Nope, definitely there.

She had the key—the only key—in her hand.

So how...?

Spence.

Was the chief of police supposed to hotwire a car? Melody stood there for a few minutes, tapping a sore foot, and came to the conclusion that if anyone could get away with it, he could. Okay, great, now she double-owed him.

As she pulled out of the driveway, it occurred to her that she was wearing not only her slipper shoes, but also a worn T-shirt that said Wyoming Will Rock Your Tetons on the front, and baggy sweatpants were loosely held up by a drawstring. Glamour wasn’t on the agenda today.

Fine. She planned to state her business and go. Who cares what I look like?

After all, this was an errand, not a hot date. Still, Melody did loosen her hair and let it fall around her shoulders. No use being at a total disadvantage. Spence threw her for a wide, slow loop as it was. She didn’t know why, but she found herself recalling the time they’d gone swimming in the Yellowstone River on a camping trip early in that magical summer. He’d looked downright delicious with wet hair and absolutely nothing else on... Oh, yeah, that had been one unforgettable afternoon.

Let’s put that memory in cold storage.

Melody drove slowly toward Spencer’s property, mapping out her apology as she went. She’d say she was sorry for being grumpy, foisting the blame on her diabolical shoes. He’d act distant but nice about it all, and that would be it. Done deal. Then maybe she could actually work. Creativity was a delicate thing. When she was upset, she couldn’t concentrate. So she wasn’t doing this for Spence. She was doing it for herself.

When she finally cruised through the open gateway onto the Hogan ranch and started up the long drive, a plume of dust roiling in her wake, she scanned her surroundings, immediately registering that although Spence’s truck was parked near the barn, his horse wasn’t in the pasture, and there was no sign of his dog, either.

Perfect. She’d worked up her courage and come all this way for nothing.

Clearly, the chief of police was not at home.

Torn between mild annoyance and stark relief, Melody parked, got out of the car and stood, hands on her hips, breathing in the grass-scented country air and taking in the scenery while she weighed her options.

The Grand Tetons loomed in the near distance, jagged and snow-capped.

She shifted her focus to the house. Nothing fancy, but Spence wasn’t ever going to be fancy, and no one would expect that. The low-slung structure was functional and comfortably spacious, and it suited a cowboy lawman’s lifestyle. There was a wide front porch, shaded by a sloping roof, outfitted with several wooden rocking chairs and a small table. The barn was weathered but looked like it had a new roof, and the corral was clear of any weeds, with a solid rail fence and a trough at one end.

The house and yard could have used a woman’s touch, she thought—a few flower beds, maybe a window box or two, some cheery curtains at the windows.

But Spence was a bachelor, sharing the ranch with the horse and the dog, and Melody supposed the set-up was pretty much perfect for a simple man. Only Spence wasn’t simple at all; he was darned complicated, vexing as hell, and that mistake she’d made years ago of thinking she understood him—it had really bitten her in the posterior.

Um, better put that memory on ice, too, sweetheart.

Melody began to feel fidgety. She really needed to work. It wasn’t just therapeutic on a bazillion levels, it was also her livelihood, and, therefore, the only reason she was here at all. She wanted to get that apology out of the way so she could concentrate again...

Maybe she ought to cut her losses and run, get out while the getting was good. She could always send Spence an email, dash off a breezy “sorry about that” and move on with her life.

Furthermore, she could do without the drama, she told herself. Things had been running pretty smoothly but now, all of a sudden, Spence was an issue. Again.

All he did was give you a ride home, she reminded herself silently. Lighten up.

Inspiration struck. She’d leave him a note. That would soothe her conscience, put paid to the whole matter, once and for all.

Problem solved. Resolutely, Melody climbed the steps and just in case she’d missed her guess and Spence was at home, after all, she knocked on the door. No dog and no horse almost certainly meant no Spence, but with the way her luck had been going lately, she might catch him with his pants off or something.

An intriguing thought.

She rapped firmly at the door. Waited.

No answer.

Still, she hesitated to barge into another person’s house. She considered scribbling a few words on a page from the sketchbook she always carried in her purse, but it was a breezy day; the message might blow away, roll across the range like a tumbleweed or wind up lodged in the branches of some pine tree.

Hell.

Melody pounded on the door.

* * *

NOTHING. SHE WAS out of choices.

After drawing a long, deep breath, she tried the knob. Surprisingly, the chief of police had left his house unlocked, but then again, she supposed Spence knew it would take some nerve to rob his house.

She stopped in the act of opening the door, noticing with amusement a garden gnome parked next to something bushy by the front porch. No kidding? She guessed the plant was a weed, but she had to admit it was kind of pretty with yellow flowers that she assumed would send anyone with allergies into a tailspin. Still, it looked as if he intended it to be there. A garden decoration like that on a ranch—what was the story? If that wasn’t out of character, she would eat her pointy shoes from hell.

He was such a...man.

A tall, infuriating man with skillful hands and a compelling smile, who made love as if he really meant it...

But didn’t. All these years she’d expected to hear that he’d gotten engaged. It hadn’t happened. There’d been some talk about Trudy Reinholt, an attractive elementary-school teacher who seemed to hold on to him the longest—longer than Melody had, that was for sure—but it had fizzled out about a year ago.

Melody let herself in and stood in the living room, since there was no real entry other than some tiles in a square so cowboys could wipe their feet before they stepped onto the hardwood floors. There was a tan couch to her left in front of a river-stone fireplace, a plain pine coffee table with a dog-eared novel on it and an iron lamp that had the image of a bronco rider. His coffee cup was still sitting on the surface of the table, but to his credit, he’d used a coaster.

Would he mind her just barging in? His actions last night meant he’d given up that choice, she decided. If he hadn’t been so impetuous, so...pushy, she wouldn’t be standing here, uninvited, in his living room.

Yep, all his fault.

Still, she was an interloper. Spence craved his personal space, she knew that about him, and it was something they had in common. Solitude was a friend for both of them. She needed it in order to create her eclectic designs. He dealt with a much grimmer reality, although—granted—no one would call Mustang Creek a hotbed of criminal activity. But solitude for him was an escape from the problems he had to unravel, a chance to recover his equilibrium.

While he was in the real world solving crimes, she was in her own little realm spinning treasures.

They were opposites. She got him, and yet she didn’t.

Was that the chemistry? She was light, and he was darkness?

No, Spence was pure light, just of a different kind.

She should ditch the philosophical meditation and find a pen, since there didn’t seem to be one in her purse. No sketchbook either. Melody might have walked right into the man’s house, but she drew the line at rummaging through cabinets and drawers. She finally fished out a bank receipt from her bag and thankfully spotted a pen on a small side table by the picture window. She’d snatched it up and started to scribble her apology, noting that the pen said Findley’s Feed Store on the side, when the door opened.

“Hey.”

The sound of Spence’s low voice made her whirl around in time to have Harley launch himself at her in pure adoration, singing the song of his people.

So the master of the house was back.

Boy, he sure was, leaning in the doorway, that faint, devastating smile on his mouth. “Ma’am, pardon me for saying so, but I believe you’re trespassing.”

* * *

“I WAS LEAVING you a note.”

Melody looked cute when she felt guilty, especially while trying to fend off a dog with one hand, a pen clutched in the other.

Spence’s problem was that she looked cute—no, beautiful—to him all the time. Even in the daffodil dress, wobbling on her ridiculous shoes, she’d turned him on. Maybe it was that glimpse of one long, sleek leg because her skirt had a slit in the side of it.

The real Melody, the quirky artist with mismatched clothing and long honey hair in a shining fall over her shoulders, was eye-catching in his humble opinion. It didn’t matter what she wore.

“About?” He raised his brows in question.

“About what?” She’d figured out that if she climbed onto one of the stools by the counter, Harley’s exuberance was easier to handle. At a word, the dog would calm down, but Spence didn’t say anything. Perched there, Melody peered at him.

“You mentioned a note?”

“Oh, right.” She seemed flustered. Gloriously so. “I was going to thank you for last night.”

“For what, specifically?” Spence savored Melody’s discomfort, reflecting on the fact that she hadn’t seemed all that grateful at the time.

“The ride home.” She was blushing. “And I assume you’re the one who got my car back to me. Thanks for that, too.”

“No problem.”

“It had to be something of a problem, since you didn’t have my keys.”

“As someone who’s worked in law enforcement for a while, I can tell you it’s not an insurmountable one.”

In the course of his career, he’d met a few people who’d done a two-step, twirl and turn when it came to the law, but they weren’t always bad folks, just a little misguided. He didn’t look the other way when they broke hard and fast rules, but most of them, especially the young ones, only needed a nudge in the right direction. Spence was a big believer in second chances.

He wouldn’t mind a second chance himself. A second chance with Melody Nolan.

He could hardly believe it, but they were actually alone. Yesterday had been different, full of activity and ceremony and guests, but in his quiet house they were together—and on their own—for the first time since he and Melody had gone their separate ways nine years ago.

“Just answer my question. How did you manage the car anyway, without my keys?”

“Called in a favor from someone I know.” He moved into the kitchen, but his casual stride didn’t reflect his mood. He was anything but nonchalant. Coming home to see her car outside his house—and her inside it— had done something interesting to his stomach that had nothing to do with the fact that he’d ridden back because he was getting hungry.

She looked skeptical but also flustered at being caught in his kitchen, although at least Harley had calmed down enough that she could get off the stool. “How do they turn off the car without keys?”

She’d always had an inquiring mind.

He shrugged. “The same way they started it, I imagine. And no, I didn’t let a convicted felon drive your car. No arrests, just an...unusual background.”

Frank was a wizard with all things mechanical, but outside of one juvenile joyride, he’d stayed out of trouble. After that initial brush with the law, they’d come to a mutual understanding—Spence didn’t want to send him to jail, and he didn’t want to go. He’d found it hilarious that Spence had called him.

She chose to not pursue it. Facing him, her aquamarine eyes vivid in the late-morning light, she began, “This is better done in person, anyway. I know we’re no longer—”

“Lovers,” he supplied helpfully, crossing his arms and propping himself against the counter.

More’s the pity.

“Not in practically a decade!” His gorgeous trespasser glared at him. “I was going to say friends. That we’re no longer friends, I mean. The point is, I always pay my debts, so if you ever need a favor, I guess I owe you one.”

Spence couldn’t help it; he laughed at her grudging tone. His drawl was deliberately exaggerated. “Why, ma’am, I’m afeard that ain’t the most gracious apology I’ve ever gotten.”

Her eyes really were the most beautiful color, a shade of aqua he’d never seen on anyone else, and they flashed with a familiar fire he’d sorely missed. It had been too long since he’d really looked into them, with her looking back. Melody usually did her best to stay away from him—and if they both happened to be in the same place, she’d pretend he wasn’t there. Or that she wasn’t...

She slung the bag she’d brought over her shoulder, and he was surprised she didn’t topple over because it was obviously heavy. That was confirmed when she listed a little to one side. “Don’t pull that country bumpkin act with me, Spence. After that hefty crack last night and the way you manhandled me, you’re fortunate to get an apology at all.”

Harley sat there with his head cocked in that way he had, apparently fascinated by their exchange. The dog was so darned smart he probably understood every word, too. If Spence even mentioned the word walk, the dog was at the door, and heaven forbid he should carelessly drop the word treat because then there’d be a streak of black and white making a dash for the pantry, straight to the correct cupboard.

Melody was getting ready to leave. Apology over, duty done.

While he still wondered why she’d bothered, he didn’t want her to go. That glutton-for-punishment mentality of his clearly meant he should get his head examined by a professional.

Oh, yeah. And he was about to prove it.

“Hold on.” Spence lifted his brows. “I already know the favor. The one you promised me.”

“You do? Okay.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Shoot.”

She sure as hell should be suspicious. His intentions were distinctly based on a certain portion of his anatomy that was clamoring to be in charge. Her mouth was soft and tempting in the light coming through the kitchen window, the view outside framing her in a vista of mountain peaks and blue sky. The sun lit her hair with a glorious shimmer of gold.

If he asked her for what he wanted, she might refuse, so he improvised. “Don’t move.”

“That’s the favor?” There was confusion in her voice. And a slight tremor.

“Yep.”

“What are you up to, Hogan?” Her eyes widened as he took two steps, closing the distance between them.

He relieved her of the purse or bag or whatever it was. He muttered, “What’s in this thing? Have you been diving shipwrecks to pick up cannonballs?” It thumped as he put it on the counter. Then, quick as heat lightning, he caught her around the waist.

“None of your business, and what the hell are you doing?”

“Kissing you.”

“I don’t think—”

“Perfect,” he interrupted as he lowered his head. “Thinking should not be involved.”

It had been a long time since that passionate summer when they couldn’t get enough of each other, but his senses hadn’t forgotten a damned thing. Her taste, the curves of the body pressed against him and a fierce surge of desire he’d certainly never felt with any other woman.

Maybe if he hadn’t been in constant contact with her for the past few days he wouldn’t have done it. While it was awkward to run into each other in town and at various Bliss County events, they both used avoidance like a personal shield.

They’d done this for nine years. But he still thought about her every day. That was too telling to ignore.

What if they put as much effort into resuming a relationship as they did avoiding it? Perhaps it could work.

It must be Tripp’s happiness rubbing off on him, giving him some sort of romantic bug that was as infectious as the flu.

Melody made a noise of protest and slapped his shoulder.

Not exactly romantic enthusiasm.

In return, he deepened the kiss, half expecting a knee to the groin.

Then her hand relaxed on his arm.

That was something he might not have noticed if he wasn’t so attuned to her body language, but he felt every atom shift, the cosmos adjust, and Melody softened against him.

Physically, they’d always been good together...

If she made that sexy little sound of enjoyment that he remembered like a song stuck in his mind, he’d be dead in the water.

She made it. Big splash as he went in and started to drown.

Instant erection. He knew she could feel it, too, because she stirred slightly, in an erotic movement that was instinctively female, and if he hadn’t been busy giving her the kiss of her life—he was sure trying—he would have groaned out loud.

What happened next was up to her.

Neither one of them was breathing evenly when they finally broke the kiss, and he nuzzled her neck, waiting for her to say something, anything, to indicate how she felt about what they’d just done. Knowing Melody, she might come to her senses—smack his face and storm off, peeling rubber as she drove away.

He really hoped she wouldn’t come to her senses.

He certainly wasn’t being practical.

Luck was with him; she wasn’t, either. She looked him in the eyes. “I have no idea what that was about.”

“Yes, you do.” He brushed his fingers across her cheek. “I’m going to recant what I said last night. You’re lovely in yellow. I’m very partial to you in yellow. See how well I can apologize? Besides, it was a joke.”

“Too late to smooth that one over. Maybe you should kiss me again.”

“I’d like to do a hell of a lot more than that.”

“That isn’t exactly a state secret at the moment.” Her reply was typically sassy, but she didn’t pull away.

A treacherous flicker of triumph shot through him. Whoa, there, cowboy, don’t get too full of yourself yet. Give her something more.

“Mel, did you ever consider that it’s never too late?” He whispered the words against her mouth, and the sun was warm on his shoulders as he pulled her closer. “For us, I mean.”

He didn’t wait for her answer. This kiss was even better than the last one. That could be strictly his opinion, but as one of the two participants, surely his vote counted.

Melody took a long breath when it was over. “I know I’m being stupid, but I don’t care. Bedroom?”

“You aren’t...” He started to argue, but trailed off. Leery as she was of trusting him again, he was equally afraid of making promises until he understood exactly what she wanted. Until he knew that they both wanted the same thing.

He swept her into his arms but was wise enough to not say a word as he carried her down the hall to the desired destination. It was time he learned to keep his mouth shut.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_4367a1bf-7ceb-5296-9a9e-42925270bbbc)

MAYBE IT WAS Hadleigh and Tripp’s romantic wedding wedding that had sent her personal universe into la-la land, and maybe it wasn’t.

Melody wondered if with just two fire-hot kisses, the man holding her had changed his mind about ticking off the avoid-at-all-cost box.

“It’ll take me two minutes to get out of these clothes,” he said. “Let me undress you first.” It was so endearing that she burst out laughing. It felt good.

“Oh, out of my sexy sweatpants and T-shirt?”

“I don’t need fancy duds to know what you’ll look like.” He peeled off her shirt, raising her arms. “The shirt is see-through to a discerning man like me with a good memory. I remember what’s underneath, so I don’t notice the frills.” He added in a low voice, “Come on, Melody, you know I think you’re beautiful. That was never our problem.”

No, he was right. With him, in his arms, she’d always felt every inch a woman. In fact, she’d become a woman. At twenty, even in this day and age and halfway through college, she’d been a virgin. Not a conscious choice, really, but she’d had the nagging thought that it might have been. She was the naive fool who’d saved herself for him, as she’d realized later, when she faced the bitter truth.

* * *

FOR A VERY long time she’d had a crush on Spencer Hogan. When it turned into a love affair, she’d gone in feet first, like jumping off a cliff. It had been awkward when he’d grasped that she had zero experience, but all in all, they’d managed pretty well, probably because he sure hadn’t saved himself for her. She was well aware that even in high school he’d had a reputation as a player.

Over the next few months, practice had improved the situation. They’d practiced on every horizontal surface available until it came time for her to enroll for fall college classes. They’d continued their relationship—or that part of it, anyway—even after that disastrous proposal of hers, followed by his humiliating rejection, in early July. All summer long, they’d been lovers. She’d still thought they had a future.

Then he’d cut her loose.

He’d wanted a summer fling, so why couldn’t she just do the same thing now?

That annoying inner voice, the one she wished would shut up, whispered, Because that’s not you, dummy. Especially when it comes to this man.

He was beautiful, too, with all that dark hair and those oh-so-blue eyes. At least she’d put on a new bra with matching panties when she’d gotten dressed, since that was all she had. She hadn’t done laundry in a while, thanks to the wedding festivities.

He ran his finger along the scalloped lace edge over the curve of her right breast. “My X-ray vision missed this. Nice.”

She retorted, “It’s a laundry issue, so don’t think I wore it for you.”

“I hope you won’t mind if I admire it more off you than on.” He deftly undid the clasp in front and slipped it off her shoulders. At some later time, she’d probably resent that level of expertise.

Don’t think about that.

In his usual audacious way, he just picked her up and deposited her on the bed. His room was masculine, but then again, he was Spencer Hogan, male through and through. A rough-hewn bed with a headboard made of pine logs took center stage. It was covered with a bedspread in browns and greens patterned with pine trees, and there was a single dresser, a nightstand with a reading lamp and a door to what she assumed was a closet. A window with a view of the mountains drew the eye. No other decorations.

The view alone was probably the reason there wasn’t a single picture on the wall. What was the point? No framed picture could match it, spring, summer, fall or winter, but her attention was currently riveted elsewhere.

When he shed his clothes, she could see that his body certainly hadn’t changed, still honed and muscular, his broad chest tapering to a taut waist and narrow hips. She knew he worked out because she’d seen his truck at the local gym; Bex owned it and she went there, too. She also knew that he rode Reb every day, rain or shine.

His aroused state reminded her that sexual attraction was never their problem, either. Any more than mutual appreciation of each other’s looks had been. On the physical level, they’d had no complaints.

“You won’t need these.” Her panties went next as he hooked his fingers in the thin bits of lace and drew them down her legs.

When he stretched out on top of her, her heart was beating at a pace that would send the average race car driver slamming into a wall at curve three. He stroked her breast and said the most romantic thing possible, which certainly didn’t help matters.

“I’ve missed you.”

Three simple words if you discounted the contraction. But he looked and sounded as if he meant them.

He also looked hot. And sexy. And just...Spence.

“Are you talking to me, or my breast?” Melody ran her fingers through his thick hair and let him have his way. “I—”

He interrupted whatever she was going to say—she wasn’t sure what that was, actually—with another scorching kiss. Enough talking. That was also Spence. Pillow talk wasn’t his style. He was a man of action in every way, so that hadn’t changed.

Neither had the way he could so quickly ready her with a touch, with his kiss; even a meaningful look could do the trick.

Not that she really needed foreplay, but he was considerate enough to make sure by gliding his hand over the curve of her hip then sliding a finger deep inside her. “Wet and hot. You’ve missed me, too.”

If only she could deny it.

She ran her hands down his bare back. “Hurry.”

The rasp of the drawer of the nightstand being pulled open momentarily distracted her from the haze of her lust-induced delirium, and he extracted a foil pouch, tore it open and covered himself. That was something else she’d address later. He had condoms on hand.

He entered her in a slow movement that managed to convey that he wanted to go faster but wouldn’t rush it. He was the lover she remembered, finesse balanced by a hot-blooded approach to making love. He could accurately gauge her level of arousal and handle the situation accordingly.

Then it all took off.

He moved and she moved, lifting her hips in instinctive response, her body knowing what she wanted.

Spence knew it, too. He increased his pace right on cue, the erotic rhythm perfect. She felt her climax building, did her best to put it off because it was embarrassingly quick, but couldn’t. She lost it.

The most gratifying part, besides the orgasm of a lifetime, was that Spence lost it, too, and she was sure her reaction pushed him over the edge faster than he’d intended.

Both of them breathless and perspiring, he pulled her with him as he rolled to the side. His tousled dark hair was in stark contrast to the white pillowcase. After a moment, he said in a voice that was much huskier than his usual cool tone, “And here I thought I wasn’t seventeen anymore. That was damn fast.”

Clearly they’d both needed what had just happened, but if she analyzed it, she’d probably jump up, jerk on her clothes and run. So nix to the psychological aspect of what might have been a very big mistake.

“No apologies necessary.” She drew her hand along the contours of his chest. He felt solid and very real, even in a surreal moment like the aftermath of wild sex with a man she’d vowed to avoid for the rest of her life.

Bex and Hadleigh were going to strangle her for getting involved with Spence again—if she ever told them about this. Not to mention that it was Sunday morning. She was normally a regular churchgoer, but she’d just renewed her sinner’s card, instead, by making love with Mustang Creek’s most notorious bachelor.

Not to mention her stupidity card.

His breath was warm against her mouth, and his lashes lowered. “I’d like to make it up to you if you have the time. My unseemly speed, I mean.”

There was nothing to make up.

“I have to feed my cats. I haven’t done it yet this morning.”

He laughed, his eyes a crystalline blue as he gazed at her. “Can I get a better excuse than that, please?”

The second time they made love it was slower, more measured but just as intense, and she held herself together a little longer, but by the third time she hit that sweet spot, Melody wasn’t even sure she could remember her own name.

In bed he deserved a Hollywood star on a sidewalk somewhere.

Out of it, she wasn’t positive they understood each other. At all. Emotionally speaking.

The buildup to the wedding had been trying, although she supported Hadleigh and Tripp with all her cheerleader might, even in those torturous shoes, pom-poms waving. They’d all been cheerleaders in high school, way back when...

Spence said something, and she registered the cadence of his deep voice, but she was tired, physically and mentally. The sheets were soft and smelled faintly like him, and all the bustle of the past few days came crashing down. She and Bex had been running around like headless chickens, handling all the details to keep Hadleigh sane. Melody nestled into the pillow like a bear finding a cave as the weather turned cold.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, I just asked you a question.” A gentle hand caressed her shoulder.

“Hmm. What?”

“You want to talk about this?”

“About what?”

He chuckled softly. “I’m going to run into town. Do you want me to feed your cats while you take a nap since I’ll be in the vicinity?”

What did he say?Nap. Yeah. What a glorious word. She mumbled, “Sure.”

Then drifted off to sleep.

* * *

SPENCE WASN’T POSITIVE what to do.

Okay, he needed to get this straight. For the first time since the dawn of human beings, since creatures crawled out of seas or grabbed an apple in a garden somewhere, depending on what school of thought you followed, a man wanted to talk to a woman about their relationship, and she just went to sleep.

It was supposed to be the other way around.

So...he watched her sleep. Melody had half turned toward him before she’d conked out, one hand under her cheek, her lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones.

It wasn’t even noon.

Harley whined at the bedroom door. Spence had shut him out—he didn’t want a canine audience while he and Melody were making love—and it was getting close to lunchtime. Spence got out of bed, pulled on his jeans again and headed toward the kitchen. Melody didn’t stir.

After he fed his dog, he figured he ought to rustle up some human-grade food. Trouble was, he didn’t have much in the house.

He dumped the high-end kibble—the stuff he traveled twenty miles one way to buy—into the dish and Harley went at it, gobbling it up with a gusto that made that trip worthwhile. Then he said, “Want to go into town?”

Harley did an imitation of a champion high jumper by the door out to the back porch.

Big yes.

Spence got his keys and hers, since they were on the counter, grabbed a piece of paper from the drawer and wrote a note for Melody, which was an ironic twist to an already unusual morning. Then he hit a number on his phone. The owner of the Ride ʼem Café answered on the fourth ring and he said, “Good morning, Carly.”

“Back at you, Chief. You sound chipper.”

He was feeling chipper, although he was fairly sure that was a word he’d never use to describe himself. But yes, he was in a very good mood. There was a beautiful naked woman in his bed—naked except for that bracelet. He was going to have to ask Melody if she ever took that off. And it was a bright sunny day.

Carly Riggs was from the South, which could account for her killer fried chicken, and he ordered two dinners to go, the usual sides. He remembered his first date with Melody and added two slices of cheesecake. If they were meandering down memory lane, they might as well go all the way. She didn’t do much in the dessert arena unless she’d changed a lot, but she’d always loved cheesecake.

Be back with lunch was what he’d written.

He hesitated but that seemed clear enough, so he left it at that. Harley jumped into his truck once they’d hot-footed it outside, and he drove to town.

Beautiful day, birds singing, cartoon cupids darting around with their arrows...

What had he just done? Spence’s hands curled around the steering wheel as he took the turn off the property. He’d seduced Melody.

She might have joined in with a flattering amount of enthusiasm, but he knew she hadn’t come to the ranch expecting a roll in the hay, so he had to take responsibility. It was all on him.

He really wasn’t some kind of Lothario, but that was his reputation. It had come about mostly because once he started dating women who weren’t Melody, he was quick to lose interest.

He wondered how she’d feel if she found out how old those condoms were. Surely they held up pretty well in those foil packs. He didn’t sleep around, no matter what everyone gabbed about. At one time, especially after their breakup, he’d dated lots of women, but his heart hadn’t been in it, and that was a problem, as he’d discovered.

“Her cats are weird according to what I’ve heard from Tripp,” he said to Harley as he drove into Mustang Creek proper. “You’ll have to stay outside.”

His dog gave him a look that spelled out clearly he thought all cats were weird.

That was a valid point in Spence’s view. He took a breath and expelled it. “I wasn’t looking to get involved again,” he confided. “At least I didn’t think so. Not until this weekend...”

Sprawled in the passenger seat, Harley whined in commiseration, his white paws crossed.

Some jerk was speeding, going the other way on Main, and as they passed he took a moment to radio that in. He was never truly off duty, but that was fine.

He pulled up at Melody’s house, took Harley as far as the front porch and told him to stay then let himself in, pausing to look around.

Melody had turned her living room into her studio. There were sketches scattered across a worktable, and Spence resisted the urge to examine them because that would be an invasion of her privacy, even though she’d given him permission to go inside. The place was cozy, with a comfortable sofa and a patterned rug, and the artist in her was evident in an unusual mobile by the window. Squares of brilliant stained glass hung from strands of twisted copper. It didn’t take much intuition to know she’d made it, and Spence stood there for a moment, admiring her handiwork. He knew she was gifted, but fine arts hadn’t been her major the summer they were together. Back then, she’d planned on going to law school.

Changing her mind had been wise; she’d certainly nailed that piece, and he knew her jewelry sold well. During tourist season the local shops did a land office business in the stuff and clamored for more.

But that aside, there was one small problem. There were no cats to feed as far as he could tell.

No meows, no brushing against his legs, just utter silence. It was summer, and he sincerely hoped she hadn’t left a window open and they’d all escaped. It was possible that they were hiding because he wasn’t familiar to them—cats were very canny critters with a knack for self-preservation.

Or maybe they were hiding in plain sight.

He suddenly realized that there were three cats sitting on the fireplace mantel—looking almost like works of art themselves. He stared at them. Their tails were curled in perfectly matched question marks, and they seemed identical, but then again he was far more used to horses and dogs. Occasionally cats took up residence in his barn, but they fed themselves on the inevitable mice. It was an eerie sensation to see that these felines were studying him as if assessing his status as an interloper. Friend or foe?

Tripp had been right. They were weird.

“I have her permission,” he told the trio defensively. “Besides, I’m here for your convenience. She wants me to feed you.” He thought about his relationship with Harley, the understanding they had. “Anyone care to show me where the food is?”

That ploy actually worked. Go figure.

One of them jumped gracefully to the floor and with his tail twitching, led him to the kitchen, where he stared at a cabinet.

There did turn out to be cans of cat food in that cabinet, so he opened one—how much did a cat eat? He divvied the contents into three servings, refilled their water bowl and left. On the porch, Harley thumped his tail in support, and Spence could swear there was a sympathetic look in his eyes that said cats





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