Kathleen O'Brien - [Cowboy Country] - Texas Wedding

TexasWedding“Your offer is generous as hell, Susannah.”
Trent shook his head. “But money isn’t what I want.” He angled her even closer,
close enough to feel the heat that throbbed through him. “You know what I want.”
“But what you want—you can’t…What about the paper?” She seemed to be struggling
to catch a breath. “You won’t…sign it?”
“No, I won’t sign it, Sue, but there are other ways.”
“Other ways to…what?”
Her lips were half-open, peach-pink, wet and glimmering in the sunlight. And he
remembered exactly how they had tasted. How they had felt, on him, around him.
For eleven long years, even in dreams, he had been haunted by the memory of
their warmth, their hidden strength….
She might hate him, but he had to have this. He refused to go on burning and
wanting, and being forever denied. Though she wouldn’t admit it, she burned,
too.
“Trent. Tell me what you mean.”
He let his body answer her.


Dear Reader,
For those of you who read Texas Baby and saw the sparks between Trent Maxwell
and Susannah Everly, it won’t be a surprise to learn that I struggled to find a
happy ending for this star-crossed couple.
They have such an emotional history…years of love, followed by years of
bitterness. They’ve spent a decade denying their deepest feelings. How on earth
could I move them toward truce, forgiveness and, finally, back to love?
Sometimes it seemed impossible. One thing kept me searching: the letters and
e-mails I got from readers, asking for Trent and Susannah’s story. Those eager
notes reminded me that we all want to see love triumph over anger and pain.
We don’t just want it. We need it.
All our relationships face challenges. Somehow we must have faith that we can
rise above our failures. We must hang on to the hope that we can forgive, and be
forgiven.
So to all my wonderful readers, thanks for the inspiration—and for waiting. I
hope you enjoy watching these two find love again. And please stay in touch.
Visit me at KOBrienonline.com, or write me at KOBrien@aol.com. Your messages
mean more than you’ll ever know!
Warmly,
Kathleen O’Brien
TEXAS WEDDING
Kathleen O’Brien

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathleen O’Brien was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow
journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned
to writing novels, which could be done at home. She’s an unapologetic
sentimentalist, with an iPod full of corny music, a den full of three-hanky
romances and an address book full of lifelong friends. She loves reading in her
backyard bower, though she struggles to keep even the ferns alive, and could
never, ever manage a thousand acres of peaches!
Books by Kathleen O’Brien
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
1015—WINTER BABY†
1047—BABES IN ARMS†
1086—THE REDEMPTION OF MATTHEW QUINN†
1146—THE ONE SAFE PLACE†
1176—THE HOMECOMING BABY
1231—THE SAINT*
1249—THE SINNER*
1266—THE STRANGER*
1382—CHRISTMAS IN HAWTHORN BAY
1411—EVERYTHING BUT THE BABY
1441—TEXAS BABY
HARLEQUIN SINGLE TITLE
MYSTERIES OF LOST ANGEL INN
“The Edge of Memory”
SIGNATURE SELECT
HAPPILY NEVER AFTER
QUIET AS THE GRAVE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
SUSANNAH EVERLY MAXWELL had been hiding in the bathroom for half an hour. For a
bride on her wedding night, that was at least twenty-nine minutes too long.
She’d left the shower on, hoping Trent would assume she was still bathing, and
the cascade of warm water had turned the room into a sauna. The towel knotted at
her breasts hung heavily, saturated with moisture. Steam smothered the mirror,
forming a blank screen of mist.
She knew she should go out into the bedroom, where her new husband was waiting,
but she couldn’t force herself to do it.
Her new husband…
None of this seemed real. Reaching out one fingertip, she began to write on the
glass.
Mrs…. Trent…Maxwell…
She’d penned the name a thousand times, in the turquoise ink she’d loved back in
high school. But before she could finish the last syllable, the condensation
pooled and began to run. It was like trying to write with tears.
Her reflection appeared in the open spaces, fractured into a collection of
mismatched parts. Ironically, this stranger draped in the white towel, wreathed
in clouds of steam, looked more like a bride than she had this afternoon at the
courthouse.
But not a happy bride. A broken Picasso bride, or maybe a ghost bride from some
terrifying urban legend—a confused wraith who would never find her way out of
the mist.
She touched her damp cheek, as if she needed to confirm that she was made of
solid flesh. Her new diamond ring sparkled in the mirror.
After all this time, she was really Trent Maxwell’s wife. For one year, anyhow.
Not exactly the “forever” she used to dream of.
Suddenly, hard knuckles rapped against wood.
“Susannah?”
Staring at the door, she put her left hand against her heart, which once again
thump-jogged in place.
Stop that, she commanded it. But her heart ignored her.
“Susannah? Are you all right?”
He didn’t turn the knob. He probably knew it was locked. Not that the flimsy
button would have kept him out if he’d really wanted to come in. And he would
come in, sooner or later, if she didn’t emerge. The Fates had blessed Trent
Maxwell with a lot of gifts, but patience wasn’t one of them.
She’d fallen for Trent when she was just a kid—not all that much younger than
her little sister Nikki was now. Susannah had thought she was so grown-up, ready
to be in love. Now, watching Nikki struggle with hormones at the oh-so-mature
age of sixteen, she knew better.
It had all been dreams. She’d fantasized about standing at the altar beside him.
She’d dreamed of cooking him spaghetti and darning his socks, though she had no
clue what that meant.
But those dreams had gone up in flames—quite literally—eleven years ago. Since
then, she and Trent had barely exchanged fifty civil words.
Now here she was, a thirty-year-old woman, embarking on a one-year marriage of
convenience. How dry those words sounded! They didn’t capture any of the
heart-skittering anticipation. He was only ten yards away, and waiting for her
to come to bed. This would be a real marriage, he’d insisted. And, because she
needed a husband, she had agreed.
But maybe she wasn’t trapped. She had one last hope—a piece of paper hidden in
her nightstand that somehow might miraculously save her.
She tried to imagine handing it to him. Tried to visualize his face as he read
it. What would he say? They’d been so close once that they could finish each
other’s sentences. But the bitter years lay between them now like a continent of
ice. Her new husband was a stranger to her, and she had no idea how he would
react.
“Susannah?”
His voice wasn’t angry. Not yet. That would come later. Later, when he read the
paper. When he found out what her plans were for this, the first of their 365
nights of married life.
Her gaze returned to the pieces of woman reflected between the finger-written
letters. Mrs… Her eyes shone. Trent… Her lips were parted, vulnerable.
Who was that woman? Suddenly horrified, she drew her eyebrows together. That
woman looked like a victim.
Ridiculous. No one had abducted her, tricked her or sold her into wedlock. The
bargain had been her idea, the only sensible escape from an impossible
situation. It was just that marriage to Trent had seemed so much more manageable
when it was weeks, days, even hours in the future, instead of right here, right
now.
But she could handle it. She wasn’t weak. Ask anyone, from the lowliest fruit
picker on her payroll to the richest buyer on the market. You could even ask her
grandfather’s ghost, which was probably still prowling the halls of Hell,
carrying his favorite switching strap.
They’d all tell you. Susannah Everly faced her problems. She took her medicine.
And she did it with her chin held high.
“I’m coming.”
She reached in and punched off the shower. Enough. She wasn’t weak.
She unknotted the towel and let it slide to the ground. Then she plucked her
gray, shapeless nightgown from the counter and tugged it over her head.
Hideous.
Perfect.
She wrapped her fingers around the warm doorknob and twisted.
Showtime.
“I’m sorry, Trent. I…”
Her voice dwindled off. The silent shadows of the bedroom momentarily
disoriented her. Was he gone? Instead of the hot voice she’d expected to hear
accosting her, demanding an explanation, she was met only by quiet currents of
dark air and the faint smell of roses.
That must mean Trent had opened the east window—the roses had climbed as far as
the second-story sill this spring and seemed to be trying to nudge the glass
open with their pink-and-yellow faces.
She took a deep breath. She adored those flowers, just as she cherished every
inch of Everly. She mustn’t forget that. She might have grown to hate Trent, but
she’d never stopped loving this beautiful ranch, set like a jewel in the middle
of a thousand acres of peach orchards.
She was doing this to save Everly.
As her eyes adjusted, she finally saw Trent. He leaned against the window frame
with his back angled to her, staring down into the side yard, though she knew he
couldn’t see much except the grapevine trellis that covered the wicker patio
loungers.
Half his body was in shadow. He wore no shirt. Moonlight turned one muscular
shoulder and arm to marble, then glimmered against the silver tip of his belt
buckle before being swallowed up by the black of his pants.
Her heart tried once again to escape, but she squared her shoulders and forced
it into submission. She had made promises. Maybe he’d let her out of them, and
maybe he wouldn’t. Either way, this had to be faced.
“Trent?”
He tilted his head toward her. “Well, hello,” he said with a smile that just
caught the moonlight. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d climbed out the
bathroom window.”
“No.” She tried to match his sardonic tone, and she was glad that he probably
couldn’t see her flush. “Of course not. Don’t be silly.”
“You think it’s silly?” He moved toward her with a lazy confidence, as if he
knew he had all the time in the world. As if he owned this night. As if he owned
her, which, in a way, he did.
“Why silly? Are you trying to tell me you’ve really been in the shower all this
time?”
She’d never been a good liar. The only person she’d ever needed to lie to had
been her grandfather, and her pride had forced her to battle it out with him,
toe-to-toe, instead. So now she hesitated just a moment too long.
Trent reached her just as she was opening her mouth to say yes, yes, of course
I’ve been in the shower.
One eyebrow rose in that classic, mocking arch as he shook his head slowly. He
laid his finger against her lips.
“No,” he said. “Don’t bother to fib. If you’d been under water all this time,
you’d be as wrinkled as a raisin.”
Instinctively, she folded her hands into fists. He glanced down at them, and his
grin deepened. “Shall we look?”
Damn him…he was so cool, so amused by her discomfort. When he touched her hand,
she had to resist the urge to slap him. He hadn’t bought the right to mock her.
But he had bought the right to touch her. He’d been very clear about that. No
way in hell was he going to sign on for a year of chastity. “I’m no saint,” he
had said, with that maddening smile that made it impossible to tell how he
really felt. “So you’d better decide whether you can deal with sharing my bed
for a whole year.”
He took one of her hands, gently pried open the fingers and held it up for
inspection. Her fingers were warm and damp, but smooth. No wrinkles. She’d been
in the shower a total of maybe five minutes, just long enough to scrub off her
makeup.
“So what were you doing in there?” His gaze flicked across her wet hair and bare
face, then skimmed the lumpy contours of her overwashed nightgown. “Not
primping, apparently. Although…it might have taken a while to dig up anything as
unflattering as this rag.”
“If I’d had enough money to buy a trousseau, Trent, I wouldn’t have needed a
husband in the first place.”
He chuckled. Could this really be funny to him? Surely he, too, remembered how
often they had dreamed of their wedding night. That fairy-tale dream had
sparkled with magic, with lace and music and romance and roses. The reality was
going to be so different….
But perhaps the fairy dust had been her dream, not his. Though they’d been
close, she hadn’t ever completely understood him, with his cryptic smiles and
his elegant indifference. Perhaps, for him, it had just been about the sex.
“What exactly are you trying to accomplish with all this, Susannah?”
“All what?”
He tugged at the sleeve of her nightgown. The neckline was shot, so even that
light pressure caused it to slip over her shoulder. She felt suddenly
half-naked.
“This plain-Jane costume. Were you hoping it would turn me off? Did you think
you could make yourself so ugly I’d run screaming from the marriage bed?”
“No.”
“Good. Because that really would be silly.” He set her hand free and put his
forefinger under her chin. “The chemistry between us has nothing to do with
packaging. It never has.”
She couldn’t deny it. Back when they were little more than kids, this fire
between them had erupted like one of her grandfather’s oil drills hitting a
pocket of natural gas. Nothing had been strong enough to put it out. It had
overpowered pimples and puberty, flus and hangovers, bad moods and bad hair, and
even the day the skunk sprayed her right in the face.
It had even outlived love.
She still felt it, arcing between them now. A primal force. Blind and fierce and
involuntary.
And dangerous. At least to her.
“Susannah.” His voice was a whisper. He moved her wet hair from her shoulder and
bent his head toward her bare skin. She made a small, trapped sound, knowing he
was going to kiss her.
She couldn’t let it happen. Her heart tripped on itself merely at the sound of
his voice. The touch of his lips would cause it to explode.
Mumbling something meaningless, she jerked away from him, toward her nightstand.
She couldn’t breathe, but somehow she kept moving. That piece of paper was her
last hope. Like the cyanide pill issued to soldiers, in case of capture.
She flicked on the bedside lamp. Then, her hands shaking only a little, she slid
open the top drawer and felt around the stacks of papers inside. It should be on
top. She’d written it hastily, only this afternoon.
“I have something….”
She glanced at him, hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. To her
surprise, he was smiling. Not a genuine, warm smile, of course—those were
rare—but his one-dimple teasing grin was pretty dazzling, too.
“Ah.” He glanced at the drawer. “The practical princess strikes again.”
“What?” He and Chase had always called her that, back when they were teenagers,
and she’d been one inch less reckless than the two boys. But why now? Could he
possibly guess what she’d written on that paper?
His dimple deepened. “I think I brought plenty, thanks, though it’s nice to know
you’ve got extra. Just in case.”
“Extra what?” Then she realized what he meant. Condoms. Her breath came
shallowly as she tried not to imagine the tumbled bed, the discarded silver
wrappers littering the floor, their sweaty bodies braided together in the
moonlight. “No. It’s not that. I have something I want to show you.”
Finally her fingers closed around the long white envelope. She pulled it out and
extended it toward him. “It’s something I’d like you to read. Something I’d like
you to sign.”
He didn’t look at the envelope. The smile stayed in place, but it lost any hint
of humor. Above it, his gaze held hers, cool and unblinking blue inside a thick
fringe of black lashes. Oh, even when he was angry, he was lethally attractive.
“Sign?”
The word was even colder than his eyes.
“Yes,” she said, too quickly. “I got to thinking about things, today after the
wedding, and I realized we hadn’t really considered…everything.”
“No? It seemed to me the prenup your lawyer drew up was pretty damn thorough. He
made it quite clear that I’ll be shot if I’m caught crossing the Everly
threshold with so much as one pillowcase from your mother’s needlepoint
collection.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Which wasn’t very likely in the first place,
was it?”
“No. It was silly, but Richard’s careful. He wanted to protect me—”
“Was the medical certificate his idea, too?”
She felt heat crawling up her throat toward her cheeks. The medical certificate
had almost scotched the whole deal. But when Trent had insisted on a physical
relationship, she had insisted that he prove he was healthy. With his Don Juan
past, it would have been insane not to.
“No, that was my idea. Richard doesn’t know we—that we agreed to—”
“Consummate the marriage?”
“Right. So when he wrote the prenup, of course he wasn’t thinking about…things
like that. That’s what occurred to me today. That we hadn’t provided for every
contingency.”
She felt foolish, still holding out the envelope. She pushed it a few inches
closer, till its crisp edge almost touched his bare, bronze chest, like the tip
of a sword.
He glanced down at it dismissively, those long eyelashes dusting his cheeks.
“It’s a little late to try to glue conditions onto this deal, don’t you think?”
Of course it was too late, technically. She knew that. He had the moral right to
tear this piece of paper into a dozen pieces and fling it in her face. Many
might think he had the moral right to shove her onto the waiting bed and force
her to do whatever he wanted.
But surely he wouldn’t. Surely even the volcano of anger that had been simmering
between them for more than a decade wouldn’t blow that high. Surely it hadn’t
taken the laughing boy who used to dance with her down by Green Fern Pool and
turned him into a monster.
“Put it away, Susannah. I’m not signing anything.”
She lifted her chin. “Just read it.”
She was pleased to note that, though her insides were twisting as if she had a
bellyful of snakes, her voice sounded strong. In spite of the hot cheeks and the
damp palms, somehow she projected confidence.
She sent a mental thank-you to her grandfather, the bully who had taught her how
to face down fear.
Trent tilted his head. “Sue, don’t do this,” he said. His voice was quiet, but
held an undercurrent of warning.
“Please. Just read it.”
She saw his chest expand as he took in a deep breath. His rib cage brushed the
edge of the envelope.
He reached out, finally, and took it. She hadn’t sealed the envelope. She hadn’t
had time. Chase and Josie, who had no doubt meant well, had brought over a few
friends to toast the newlyweds this afternoon, and Susannah had found it
difficult to steal away long enough to scrawl the words onto the paper.
Trent unfolded it and began to read.
Her heart thumped in her ears, but not loudly enough to drown out the quavering
inner voice that read along with him.
In the event that a child is conceived between me and Susannah Kate Everly
during our marriage, I, Trent Anderson Maxwell, do hereby relinquish all legal
rights to said child. I will not attempt to gain custody, partial or full, of
any child of this union. I will have no financial obligations toward said child,
nor will I have any right to be involved in decisions involving the child.
He must have read it three times, his handsome face impassive, his black hair
falling over his forehead. At least, that was how many times she could scan it
in her head—and each time it sounded more ridiculous, with all that fake
legalese mimicking wills and contracts she’d seen over the years.
And each time it sounded more damning. More unfair, and insulting. More like the
dishonest swindle it was.
His knuckles were white. So were hers.
Breathe… Though her lungs felt like rusty bellows, she had to remember she
needed air. Her head swam, and her ears rang. But she refused to do anything as
pathetic as fainting.
Thank God she’d sent Nikki away for the summer. Nikki didn’t like Trent and,
with the judgmental absolutism of the young, she’d made it clear that she
thought the whole marriage-of-convenience idea was disgusting. Knowing it would
be impossible to fight on two fronts, Susannah had found the cash for a special
art school, managed to wrangle permission to take Nikki out of school a bit
early to attend, and, just yesterday, had packed her little sister off.
Barely in the nick of time! Nikki acted tough, especially when she locked horns
with Susannah, but it was a facade. No sixteen-year-old was tough enough to
handle the hell that might break loose at Everly tonight.
It seemed an eternity before Trent raised his eyes again. When he finally did,
the look she saw in them terrified her.
“Tell me this is your idea of a joke.”
“Of course it’s not.” She knew a dignified silence would be more powerful, but
she suddenly couldn’t seem to stop talking. “It’s just common sense. No matter
how careful we are, everyone knows that birth control isn’t one hundred percent
reliable. We can’t allow our lives to be tangled up forever, with custody
battles and court cases, just because we bought a faulty condom, or because—”
“Don’t pretend you’re stupid.” He held the paper between two fingers, as if he
meant to flick it away at any moment. “You know this…this juvenile chicken
scratch would never hold up in court.”
She raised her chin. “I disagree.”
“No, you don’t. You know it’s absurd. They’d laugh you out of court. But it
won’t come to that, will it? Because you know damned well I’d never sign any
such ridiculous document. Never.”
“You have to.”
“The hell I do. You made your deal with the devil, Susannah. You can’t
renegotiate now.”
“I can.” She met his glacial blue gaze, but it made her shudder inside, as if
she’d swallowed a stomachful of chipped ice. “I am renegotiating. I have had
second thoughts. If you don’t sign that document, there will be no…no
consummation.”
For a minute, he just stared at her. And then, with a sudden oath, he did flick
the paper away. He moved toward her, roughly, all six-foot-two-inches of hard,
half-naked muscle bearing down.
Every primitive instinct told her to run, but he blocked the way. She backed up
on clumsy legs, knocking against the dresser, sending her earrings and
wristwatch clanking to the wood floor.
He didn’t even seem to hear it. He just kept coming. Finally, she ran out of
room, and her shoulder blades met the wall. He slammed the heels of his hands
onto the plaster, just inches from each side of her head. His face was so close
she could feel the heat of his breath against her cheek.
“This is what you’d planned all along, isn’t it? What a fool I was, to think
even for a minute that…” He set his jaw into a right angle of fury. “Right from
the start, this was just a nasty game of bait and switch.”
“No. No, I just realized this afternoon—”
“The hell you did. Don’t give me that crap, Susannah. You’re not a fool, and
neither am I. You never intended to keep your end of the bargain.”
She tried to deny it. But she couldn’t. Consciously, she’d meant what she said.
But somewhere, deep inside, she had always been praying that she wouldn’t have
to do this.
“Right.” He loaded the syllable with disdain. “But did you ever consider the
possibility that your game might just backfire on you?”
“No—it wasn’t a game—how could it—”
He lowered his lips to her neck and spoke his next words against her skin. “Did
it ever occur to you that I might decide not to just slink away with my tail
between my legs? That I might decide to claim what’s due me?”
“No, that never occurred to me,” she lied, swallowing hard. “I trust you to be
sensible, and—”
“You trust me?” He threw his head back, laughing harshly. “That’s a good one,
sweetheart. According to that prenup, you don’t trust me with the dinner forks.
And obviously you didn’t trust me not to bring a bucket of STDs to the marriage
bed, either.”
He bent his elbows slightly, and tilted his body toward her, just close enough
that the heat and the pressure reminded her how powerful he was. He’d always
been tall, even as a teen, with the promise of potency to come. But this was a
man’s body, with all the promises fulfilled.
She tried to go numb. She didn’t want to feel the angles of his hips against
hers. She didn’t want to be aware of the muscles in his legs, rippling with
tension. She didn’t want to remember how this same body had once covered hers
with tenderness.
“You obviously believe I’m an immoral bastard—and eleven years ago you told me I
was a murderer, too.” His rough voice scraped her nerves. “What would stop a man
like that from asserting his conjugal rights…with whatever force it required?”
“Nothing.” She pressed her head against the wall, struggling to create distance.
“You’re obviously stronger than I am, Trent. Nothing can stop you except your
own conscience.”
But did he have one? And what about her conscience? She had agreed to a sexual
relationship, in exchange for this marriage. If she could anesthetize her
conscience, perhaps he could do the same.
For a minute, she thought he might. He let his body press forward even farther,
until the granite of his chest met her breasts. His heat scorched through her
nightgown. Too fast for her to react, he thrust his knee between her legs and
cocked it up, pressing it hard against the aching spot at the apex of her
thighs.
She twisted against the wall, trying to escape both him and the hot desire that
traitorously shot through her. Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to prevent this,
but she could fight. She didn’t have to make it easy for him. She pushed against
his chest with her palms, but she might as well have been trying to move a
mountain.
He let her squirm for a moment, just long enough for her to realize how helpless
she truly was. And then, without warning, he stepped away.
If she hadn’t been propped up by the wall, she might have fallen. Her breath was
coming so fast, it was as if she’d been running for hours.
He, on the other hand, looked as cool and contemptuous as ever. He picked up his
shirt and began walking toward the door.
When he put his hand on the knob, he turned.
“It’s not my conscience stopping me,” he said, looking her over with a cool
appraisal that somehow managed to be as insulting as if he’d spit in her face.
“It’s my standards. I don’t much care for liars, or frigid, manipulative
bitches. The truth is, sweetheart, you’re not worth it.”
CHAPTER TWO
YEARS AGO, Trent had learned that there’s no frustration, no pain or fury, no
mental monster of any kind, that can’t be tamed by a treadmill—assuming you go
fast enough and stay on it long enough.
This morning, with Susannah’s double cross less than twelve hours behind him,
he’d logged about ten miles on the gym’s machine before he felt even
semi-normal. He started Mile One with his cell phone in his hand, fingers
itching to call a lawyer, any lawyer, and file for a quickie divorce.
Instead, he dialed up the treadmill speed and jogged till he sweated out some of
the poison. Somewhere along the repetitive rubber highway, he found enough
sanity to remember why he’d agreed to this marriage in the first place.
It hadn’t been just to help Susannah. It hadn’t even been just because he’d been
fool enough to dream that this might be their second chance.
He’d also done it for Chase.
Originally, Chase had been Susannah’s chosen temporary husband. It had made
sense. Chase was her best friend. He was unattached and, even more importantly,
he was a born saint. The original Mr. DoGood. So he had been perfectly happy to
marry her with no demands, no strings attached.
But then Josie Whitford had come along and hit Chase like a bolt of lightning.
The poor guy’s dilemma had been painful to watch. Love or loyalty? Passion or
past promises?
Trent had to say one thing for Susannah: though she was as cold as a meat locker
toward Trent, she did seem to have a soft spot for Chase. When she’d realized
the problem, she’d come to Trent and laid out a deal.
The way she figured it, Trent should marry her. If he hadn’t screwed up their
relationship eleven years ago, she said, she wouldn’t be in the market for a
husband in the first place. So Trent owed her. If he’d help her meet the husband
clause in her grandfather’s will, she’d consider the debt paid.
Trent knew she was desperate, even to suggest it. He knew she would have
exhausted all other options, sane or crazy, before coming to him.
Everyone knew she’d tried to break the will legally, of course. But though old
man Everly had been mean as a snake and the biggest male chauvinist in Texas,
he’d also been clever and controlling, and he’d apparently found a lawyer who
was his match.
The resulting will was apparently ironclad. Arlington had left Everly tied up so
tight Susannah couldn’t sell a single peach tree, not one pebble on the
property, no matter how much she needed money. Not till she got married, and
stayed married, sleeping under the same roof with her husband for a full year.
Trent was surprised the will hadn’t required a check of the honeymoon bedsheets,
to prove all marital obligations had been met. The nasty old bastard.
It had been tempting all on its own, to think of thwarting old man Everly.
But what really made Trent agree to the deal was his own soft spot for Chase,
his childhood friend. He’d agreed to take Chase’s place. Minus the saint and
celibacy stuff, of course. He was willing to help Susannah by presenting himself
at the altar, not on it.
And look where he’d ended up anyhow. Lying right on that slab. Staring at the
longest, coldest year of his life, beside a marble-hearted bitch who just
happened to look like a girl he used to love.
But at least Chase was happy. And that was still worth protecting.
Finally resigned, Trent showered and headed back to Everly.
The house had seen better days—it could definitely use a coat of paint—but the
fancy gingerbread Victorian looked its best on this cloudless spring morning,
with roses bunched up everywhere, and the trees finally back in leaf.
The minute he opened the door, he heard voices. Susannah was here, but she
wasn’t alone. He listened a second, and recognized Chase.
He scanned the large honey-pine foyer. The guest powder room door was open, the
frilly area empty. No sign of Josie. So Chase had come alone.
Had Susannah sent out an SOS? Needed, one shoulder to cry on, because my husband
is a beast.
“Hey!” Chase stood up from the table as Trent entered the kitchen. He grinned.
“You owe me one, buddy. I just barely managed to keep Pastor Wilcox from coming
over here. I told him I’d bring his present along, since I was going to stop by
anyhow.”
Trent was surprised to discover how much the sight of Chase’s easy smile annoyed
him—especially since he’d just been waxing sentimental about honoring the bond
of friendship, taking one for your mate, all that band of brothers nonsense.
But he’d just gotten married last night, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t your band of
brothers be willing to back off for at least one day? Give you time to…
Time to what? To break promises and fling insults? To call each other names and
rip open old wounds? Maybe, when he thought about it, he and Susannah had
already had all the togetherness they needed.
Trent glanced at her now, standing at the stove. In her usual outfit of sharp
khaki slacks and white oxford-cloth shirt, with her hair in a glossy braid down
her back, not a strand out of place, she looked utterly serene.
She turned gracefully and held out a blue mug, smiling. “Cup of coffee, Trent?
It’s fresh.”
Her voice was angelic, smooth, as if she’d just this minute set aside her golden
harp and stepped down from her cloud. He hesitated a beat before accepting the
coffee, sorting the clues.
One thing was clear. She hadn’t invited Chase over. She was improvising,
pretending that there was smooth sailing in the newlywed world. They weren’t
going to tell Chase about last night’s nosedive into the emotional swamp.
“Okay, thanks,” Trent said, playing along. He turned to Chase. “Yeah, we owe
you.”
But he wasn’t sure what to say next. Chase knew them both so well. He wasn’t
going to be easily fooled.
Trent took a sip of coffee, though it was technically still too hot. Then he
reached across the table for the present, wrapped in its flocked silver paper,
and picked it up.
“So what did Pastor Wilcox send? I hope it’s not one of his wife’s samplers.
I’ll never forget the one in her living room that said ‘Enquire not what boils
in another’s pot.’ I swear the thing gave me nightmares.”
Chase and Susannah both laughed politely, which in itself was stilted, since
this was an old joke. The three of them had made fun of that sampler for years,
rewriting it into a hundred vulgar variations, like “Enquire not what rots in
another’s boils.”
He pulled off the white bow and began to rip away the paper, just as if he gave
a damn what was inside. They watched him, pretending to be equally transfixed.
It was a picture frame, arranged facedown, so that all he could see was the
velvet backing and little gold clips. He flipped it over and readied himself to
make some joke about Jenny Wilcox’s nutty quotations.
The joke died on his lips. It wasn’t a sampler, after all. It was a photograph
of Susannah and Trent, standing out in one of the Everly peach orchards. It must
have been taken a long time ago. At least eleven years, in fact, because
Susannah was laughing, something she hadn’t done in Trent’s presence since the
night of the fire.
She wore a flower-sprigged gypsy dress, and her skirt was full of peaches. She
held the fabric up in both hands, just high enough to expose her knees.
Trent was staring at her, goofy and love-struck, peaches littered around his
feet. He had been juggling them, and when Susannah lifted her dress, they’d all
come tumbling down.
For an aching instant, just looking at the picture, he was there again, at the
church picnic, with Pastor Wilcox taking snapshots. Trent could feel the summer
sun on his cheeks, and he could taste the sweet, sticky peaches on his tongue.
He had made love to Susannah that night, lying under the moonlight on the
cooling grass, and she had tasted of peaches, too.
He glanced up at her now, to see how she had reacted. The past had been so alive
that it shocked him to see how different the real Susannah was. Not much older,
amazingly, and not any less beautiful, but somehow muffled. Empty, as if
whatever spring had fed the laughter had dried up and turned to dust.
Though she, too, stared at the picture, she hadn’t reacted at all. She still
wore that lovely robot smile. The eyes above it were as empty as a doll’s.
He held the picture out. It was cruel, perhaps, but he wanted her to touch it.
He wanted her to say something, anything, that proved she was still a real human
being.
She took it in her hand. “What a lovely thought,” she said blandly, looking down
at it without blinking. “That was nice of them.”
Then she set it on the table gently. “I’m sorry to leave you, boys, but I’ve got
to talk to the foreman about some new hires. Several of my best workers had a
terrible car accident last weekend, and I’m going to be shorthanded.”
Obediently, Chase stood up and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled, and waited
for Trent to do the same. Still part of the charade for Chase’s benefit. Trent
kissed her, surprised to find that her cheeks were still soft and warm, not firm
plastic like a mannequin’s.
Then she was gone.
The silence in the kitchen held a million unasked questions—and a million
unspoken answers. Trent didn’t rush to fill it. Between the two men, words were
often unnecessary.
Chase pulled open the cabinet door that hid the trash can. Then he wadded up the
wrapping paper and tossed it toward the container. He missed. Trent retrieved it
and tried again. He missed, too.
“Pathetic,” Chase said. They both stood staring at the misshapen ball of
glittering silver paper on the tiled floor.
“Look, Trent. Maybe I should stay out of this but…don’t give up on Sue, okay?
It’s early days, you know. Things could get better, with a little time.”
Trent grunted, then went over and stuffed the paper into the trash can and
kicked the cabinet door closed. “Yeah, and you could get drafted by the
Mavericks, but I’m not holding my breath.”
Chase shook his head. “What the hell happened? I was hoping I’d find you two
still in bed. But I get here, you’re gone, and she’s doing her bookkeeping like
it’s just any other day. Damn it. I honestly thought that, once you guys were
married, she might—”
“Well, she didn’t. And she’s not going to. I was an idiot to think she ever
would. She was always strong, Chase, but it’s different now. She’s changed.
Maybe her grandfather did it to her. Hell, maybe I did it. But she’s
turned…tough.”
“No, she hasn’t.” Chase chewed the inside of his lip. “Or if she is tough, it’s
tough like an avocado. Just on the outside. You’ve got to remember that, you
know. She can still be bruised on the inside. Are you sure you didn’t do
something, say something that might have made her feel—”
“No.” Trent took his coffee cup to the large stainless steel sink and tossed the
dregs down the drain. “I didn’t say a damn thing. And, frankly, I’d prefer not
to get lectures from you on this. Why don’t you go home and take care of your
own wife?”
Chase smiled. One of his best traits was his easy nature. He rarely took offense
at anything.
“Gladly,” he said. “But I think you’re passing up some pretty useful advice.
After all, I do have an embarrassingly happy marriage.”
Trent made a harsh sound. “Then your advice is no use to me. Last night made one
thing perfectly clear. Susannah and I aren’t married.” He felt his shoulders
tighten. “We’re at war.”

AS SUSANNAH SAT with her foreman in his cluttered office just off the barn,
listening to him sputter indignantly about the young slacker they’d just
interviewed, she really was trying to focus. Every time her mind or her gaze
wandered toward the house, she dragged it back.
She had been more relieved to see Trent show up this morning than she wanted to
admit. When she’d awakened and found him gone, she hadn’t been sure whether he
was ever coming back.
But he had come, and that’s all that mattered. As long as her plan to break her
grandfather’s will was safe, she didn’t care what Chase and Trent were saying
now. Trent had undoubtedly already spilled all the gory details, and they’d
begun bashing her, employing the usual macho insults for women who promise
things they refuse to deliver.
But so what? That wasn’t important. This was. The peach crop was going to be
good this year, and, even if she wasn’t sure she had buyers for the fruit, she’d
still need as many skilled workers as possible to bring it in.
Even the worker she’d just interviewed. Eli Breslin.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw the cheeky little son of a gun.” Zander was so
outraged he sputtered. “He has the nerve to walk in here? As if you’d hire that
one to shine your shoes!”
She smiled. “I can’t afford to have my shoes shined by anybody. But I do need
someone to pick peaches. And he’s the only one who showed up, right?”
“Well.” Zander shuffled papers on his desk. “There were a few calls.”
“Yes, but those men weren’t good enough, either.”
They’d already discussed this. One candidate used to work for the Ritchie
spread, which was notoriously badly run, and the second applicant had been on
the wagon for only six months, which wasn’t long enough in Zander’s eyes,
and…well, the bottom line seemed to be that most of the callers failed to meet
the foreman’s standards.
Eli Breslin wouldn’t have made the cut, either, except that he hadn’t bothered
to phone first. He’d just knocked on the office door, and Susannah, despairing
of getting anyone past Zander’s gauntlet, had insisted on interviewing the kid.
Zander leaned back in his ancient, squeaking leather chair and tapped his pencil
against his knee. “He’s got zero experience with peaches.”
“He can learn,” Susannah said. She moved her hand and almost overturned a
teetering stack of paperwork. Ironic that Zander required perfection of everyone
but himself. “Things are desperate right now. We may have to lower our standards
a bit.”
Of course, that was the wrong thing to say. The big man sat up straight and
puffed out his chest. “I’m glad your grandfather isn’t around to hear you say
such a thing. He never abandoned his standards, no matter what. Not even when
the Alzheimer’s laid him low.”
Sighing, Susannah stood and walked to the window, where she could see the east
forty, which looked beautiful in May, with all the trees wearing full green. The
sight calmed her a little.
She and Zander had been through this a dozen times in the two years since
Arlington H. Everly had died, and she didn’t feel like hashing it out again.
Her grandfather’s “standards” were, in her view, simply mule-headed stubbornness
and excessive pride. His refusal to face economic facts had brought Everly to
this current disaster, and she and Zander both knew it.
When Susannah was a kid, before her parents died, Everly Industries had owned
ten thousand acres of fertile land here near Austin, and almost as many in West
Texas, where the land was so rich the oil just boiled out of the ground. Today,
they had one tenth that, only one thousand acres, a mere three hundred of them
producing. Oh, and a dried-up two-acre plot in West Texas that looked like Swiss
cheese from all the useless holes Arlington had kept drilling after Alzheimer’s
had claimed his brain.
“I need hands,” she said, trying to stick to the topic. “Lots of hands to prune
and thin, and then, in a few weeks, start bringing in those peaches before they
rot on the trees. Eli Breslin is a healthy, willing worker with two excellent
hands. Hire him.”
The silence behind her was full of disapproval. Finally Zander spoke, his voice
a deep, censorious rumble in his chest. “You can’t mean that. What about Miss
Nikki?”
She bit her lower lip. That was the big question, of course. When Eli Breslin
had worked next door at Chase’s Double C quarter horse ranch, Nikki had fallen
for him like a too-ripe peach dropping from the tree. In fact, Eli Breslin was
one of the main reasons Susannah had decided to spring for Nikki’s expensive art
school. It had simply been too hard to keep the two from sneaking off together
into the orchard late at night.
And Susannah knew all too well what could happen in the orchard, under a milky
moon, on a warm spring night.
On the other hand, Nikki was gone, and during his interview Eli had apologized
with a lot of grace and maturity. Maybe, without her wild little sister to
distract him, Eli Breslin could be a good worker.
Or maybe Zander was right. Maybe Eli was just too iffy….
She pressed her hand over her eyes. She’d been staring out into the sun too
long, and she was getting a headache.
She heard someone open the office door behind her, and then the sound of Zander
levering himself out of his squeaky chair.
“Trent! Thank God you’re here! Maybe you can help me talk some sense into Ms.
Susannah!”
Oh, great. She needed this right now.
Susannah turned to see Trent moving into the office, his lean height dominating
it more thoroughly than even Zander’s bulk could ever do. He shut the door
behind him, then came over and shook the foreman’s outstretched hand,
simultaneously slapping him on the shoulder. They were old friends, and suddenly
she felt outnumbered.
“No one needs to talk sense into me.” She included both men in her scowl. But
damn it. What was it about Trent’s lazy, amused grin that made her feel like a
kid stamping her foot? “I make my own decisions. I know what I’m doing.”
Trent raised his eyebrow, as if she’d said something cute, and transferred that
annoying grin to the foreman. “Come on, Zan. You know her. When she makes a
decision, you and I and Hell’s army couldn’t talk her out of it. Save your
energy for a battle you can win.”
“I would. God knows, I usually do. But this is different. She’s getting ready to
hire Eli Breslin.”
Trent’s eyebrow went up even farther. “Really?” He glanced at Susannah. “Why?”
“Because I need workers, that’s why. Because Eli applied, and he sounded sincere
about needing the job. He went out of his way to apologize for everything that
happened with Nikki. He explained that he was just lonesome. Homesick. That’s
why he wants a second job now, to save up to buy a plane ticket back home to El
Cajon.”
Trent chuckled. “He actually said that?”
“You should have heard the little weasel.” Zander grimaced. “Kid should be an
actor. He spread honey on her like she was his own personal biscuit.
Ninety-three percent of it pure baloney, if you ask me.”
“But I didn’t.” Susannah tightened her voice. “I didn’t ask either of you. It’s
my decision.”
Zander growled under his breath, like a fussy old hound. “You do remember what
he did at the Clayton place, don’t you? You remember he walked away from a sick
horse, didn’t care whether the animal lived or died? You remember Trent had to
fire him?”
“She remembers.” Trent’s smile was gone. In its place was cool speculation. “Is
that part of the appeal, Susannah? Do you think it would be fun to tweak my nose
a bit?”
It might be fun, she thought, to see if she could slap that insufferable
arrogance off his face. But she gritted her teeth and braided her hands behind
her back. Her famous self-control was the only thing that kept Zander from
quitting. She’d heard him say it was beneath him to work for a woman, but Ms.
Everly didn’t really act like one, so he didn’t mind too much.
She lifted her chin. “As I’ve pointed out before, Trent, not everything I do is
about you.”
But he just grinned again, and her palms itched. How did he do this to her? Why
couldn’t she learn to be immune to his snarky comments and his laughing eyes?
She had been vacillating about Eli, but suddenly her mind was made up.
She moved to the door, opened it, then turned to her foreman. “Hire him. Ask him
if he has a brother, an uncle, a dog. Hire them all.”
“Dumb decision,” Zander muttered. “You’ll regret it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Trent said pleasantly. Susannah had let the
door begin to fall shut, so she almost missed the rest of the comment.
But his words were loud enough to follow her, like a dart finding its bull’s
eye.
“Our Susannah’s a clever woman, Zan. Trust me. If she regrets it, she can always
find a way to wriggle out of it.”
CHAPTER THREE
AT THREE O’CLOCK that afternoon, Trent knocked at the baby blue door of a little
white cottage over in Darlonsville.
“Trent!” Peggy Archer held out her hand. Her eyes were wide, and she seemed
momentarily speechless. “I didn’t expect to see you today. Shouldn’t you be
with…her?”
Trent sensed the trembling in her fingers and squeezed them reassuringly. “I’ve
had a date with you every Saturday afternoon for five years now, Peggy. Marriage
isn’t going to change that.”
She nodded slowly. “Especially that marriage.”
“Not any marriage. You told me your satellite dish is broken. I know you can’t
live without your Sunday night football.”
He smiled, aware that Peggy never watched sports on TV, but hoping to distract
her from the subject of Susannah. It was a sore one in this house.
Long ago, when they were kids, Peggy’s son Paul had been part of the inseparable
quartet, the Fugitive Four. Trent, Chase and Susannah had all been Peggy’s
surrogate children, eating her corn dogs and hot chili every summer afternoon at
the Bull’s Eye ranch, the ten-thousand-acre Archer homestead.
But then, eleven years ago, a quarrel between Trent and Susannah had escalated
into tragedy, and Peggy’s son, Paul, had ended up dead. It had been about
ninety-nine percent Trent’s fault, and it had taken him years to find the
courage to come back to Texas and face what he’d done.
Facing Peggy had been the toughest. But little by little, she had forgiven him
and let him slip into the role of surrogate son once more. Oddly, as the years
had gone on, she had ended up blaming Susannah the most.
When Trent had told her about the one-year marriage, the news had seemed to
distress her out of all proportion. Trent had assumed it had been because of
Paul, but he wondered now if Peggy had simply feared she’d lose Trent’s weekly
visit.
Darn it. Foolishly, he’d taken for granted that she would understand. He’d never
stop coming to see her, not as long as she needed him.
His debt to her was eternal. It would never be paid.
He tightened his grip on her hand. “Hey. Don’t I get invited in?”
“Of course, but—” She glanced over her shoulder as she backed away from the
door. “I thought you weren’t coming, so—”
Just at that moment, her ex-husband, Harrison Archer, ambled in from the
kitchen, muttering under his breath and studying the bracket that ordinarily
held the satellite dish up on the roof.
Harrison was a balding, Texas-sized good old boy with a chest as round and
barrel-shaped as any of his steers. At his heels trailed his son Sean, who at
eight years old already looked shockingly like Paul. Both sons from Harrison’s
second marriage did. It was the red hair, mostly. Harrison’s new wife, Nora, was
half Peggy’s age, but otherwise could have been her clone—same fiery hair,
petite body and smart hazel eyes.
Everyone knew what Harrison was doing when he married Nora, only two years after
Paul’s death. He was doubling back to square one and starting over. Or trying
to. But in spite of the healthy new sons and the pretty wife, there was still
something dead in his eyes that made Trent uncomfortable whenever their gazes
met.
“Trent. Thank God you’re here.” Harrison held up the bracket. “I can’t figure
this blame thing out to save my life. And Sean has a game tonight. All right if
I let you take over?”
“Sure.” Trent smiled at Harrison and then at Sean, who was a cute kid, gangly in
his miniature polyester Red Sox uniform. “Hi, kiddo.”
“Sean is pitching today,” Harrison said in his deepest proud-father voice, his
chest expanding subtly, stretching the buttons of his five-hundred-dollar denim
shirt.
Trent wasn’t sure how to respond. For starters, he couldn’t believe the man had
brought Sean here suited up like this, like the ghost of Paul. Mentioning the
pitching was almost unbelievably insensitive.
But the kid looked excited, so Trent couldn’t just ignore it. “Oh, yeah? Cool.”
Sean grinned. “I’m working on my knuckleball. Dad says I’m getting pretty good.”
Instinctively, Trent shot a glance at Peggy. Once, Paul had pitched for the high
school team. He’d been good—almost great. A&M had offered him a full
scholarship. But at the very moment when he should have been reporting for
practice, he’d been lying in a hospital bed.
Burned over seventy percent of his body.
Dying.
And now Harrison was teaching the famous Archer knuckleball to this
freckle-faced replacement son. Peggy stared at the wall, apparently determined
not to look at Sean. Her cheeks were pale, her hazel eyes ominously glassy.
Trent’s shoulders tightened. It was like torture, rubbing salt in a wound that
already refused to heal.
“I need to sit down.” Peggy let go of Trent’s hand and led the way into the
small blue-and-white living room.
Her limp was worse this week, Trent noticed. She must be in a lot of pain.
Though only in her early fifties, she moved like a woman of ninety. Her hip
replacement surgery was scheduled for July, a long six weeks from now. She was
dreading it, but Trent privately hoped it would give her a sort of fresh start,
too.
Harrison set the bracket down on the coffee table, not bothering to hide his
eagerness to escape. “So, you can handle this alone, right? It’s not that big a
job, and we probably should hit the road. Nora gets out of Pilates at four, and
she needs to shower before the game.”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Trent repressed the urge to shake the older man. Was he
doing this deliberately? Why would he mention Nora’s daily exercise class, when
his ex-wife could barely walk?
As if Peggy didn’t already know that a heartbroken, postmenopausal arthritic
could never hold a candle to the buoyant young wife who waited for Harrison at
home.
“Good. Well, then, we’ll be going.” Harrison looked over at Peggy, who had
lowered herself into a white rocker and picked up her knitting, as if to say,
Yes, I’m a middle-aged woman, and I don’t care. “Goodbye, then, Peg.”
“Bye, Peggy,” Sean echoed politely. “Thanks for having me.”
She didn’t look up from her yarn. “Goodbye.”
The word was so cold it sent a small gust of frigid air out into the room.
Bristling, Harrison drew his eyebrows together. He handed his son the car keys
and whispered something. Sean nodded and headed toward the front stairs.
As soon as the door shut behind the boy, Harrison turned and glared at his
ex-wife. “None of this is Sean’s fault, you know,” he said gruffly.
She kept knitting. Her fingers looked almost as white as the yarn.
“Damn it, Peggy. You could be a little nicer to him.”
She finally looked up. “No. As a matter of fact, Harry, I couldn’t. Don’t ever
bring that boy into my house again.”
Harrison made a sharp move forward, but Trent threw out his arm. He’d seen the
Archer temper all too often in the old days. Back then, he’d been too young, too
intimidated by the Archer acres, to know what he should do about it.
But he knew now.
“Hey,” he said. “Easy.”
The older man’s chest pushed against Trent’s forearm, as if he might put up a
fight. His breath came harsh and heavy. They stood that way about ten seconds,
with Harrison clearly struggling for composure.
Finally he eased back an inch or two. He transferred his glare to Trent. “I need
to talk to you, son,” he said. “Outside.”
Trent didn’t much like the autocratic tone, but he very much liked the idea of
getting the agitated man away from Peggy. He nodded and followed Harrison
through the door and onto the front porch.
“Bitch,” Harrison muttered as the door shut behind him. Trent ignored it, but he
placed himself between the older man and the entry, just in case.
“You said you wanted to talk to me?”
Harrison took one last deep breath, and ran his hands through his thinning brown
hair. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. It’s just that even
after all these years, she can still get my goat. She’s stuck in the past,
Trent. Damn it, I loved Paul, too, but I have to get on with my life, don’t I?
And she hates me for it.”
“Maybe she just hates having your new life thrown in her face.”
Harrison’s fleshy cheeks reddened. “Thrown in her face? Look, I didn’t choose to
come here. She called me. She said she needed help. And look what it turned out
to be! The damn television set!”
Trent didn’t bother to try to make Harrison understand how important television
could be to someone as lonely as Peggy. Empathy wasn’t the man’s strong suit.
“Well, I’m here now, so you’re off the hook. Take Sean to the game and forget
about it.”
“It’s ridiculous, anyhow.” Harrison glanced toward the house with distaste. “Why
the hell didn’t she just hire someone to fix it? God knows the allowance I give
her is big enough.”
Trent’s jaw was so tight he could hardly get words out. “I think she likes the
company. Half the time when I come over, she tells me to forget the repairs. She
just wants to sit and talk.”
Harrison laughed. “What? You think she just likes to hang out with you? Don’t
kid yourself, son. She’s using you. She knows you’ve got a guilty conscience, so
she plays on it.”
Trent had heard enough. “You know, I think it’s time for you to go.”
To his surprise, the edict didn’t seem to inflame the older man’s tinderbox
temper. Instead, Harrison’s face softened, as if swept by a sudden and rare
compassion. “You really care about her, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Poor kid.” Harrison rested his meaty hand gently on Trent’s shoulder. “I know
you think you can make it up to her. But you can’t. It’s too big, what
happened.”
Trent shrugged. “Maybe. I come because I like to. That’s all.”
“Okay.” Harrison nodded, but he chewed on the inside of his cheek as if
something troubled him. “Still…you need to watch your step, son. Because I
promise you this. Deep down inside where nobody sees, that woman hates you.”

THOUGH MONDAY was only Eli Breslin’s first day, by midafternoon Susannah was
guardedly pleased with his performance. During the lunch break, when Zander and
Susannah had gone over business in the foreman’s office, even the older man had
grudgingly admitted that, so far, the boy took instruction meekly and worked
hard.
Maybe too hard. Mid-May in Central Texas could be cool, but summer was sneaking
in early this year, and temperatures were already hitting eighty.
When Susannah drove the flatbed out to see how the tree thinning was coming
along, she caught a glimpse of Eli, leaning against the bright yellow shaking
machine, dirty and sweaty and shirtless. He held a plastic water bottle above
his head and was letting its contents pour over his upturned face and run
glistening down his sunburned chest.
For the first time, Susannah could sort of see why Nikki had fallen for him. He
did have that hunky blond surfer boy thing going on big-time.
And that had always been Nikki’s type.
Susannah, on the other hand, had always been fatally drawn to the black-haired,
blue-eyed dangerous devil thing. So when this sweaty young sexpot smiled wetly
over at her, the only thing she felt was mild anxiety. He was so
fair-skinned…would that mean he was susceptible to heatstroke?
A sudden pang pierced just under her ribs. She wished that things could have
been different. If only she and Nikki could have been normal sisters. If only
they could have laughed about boys, shared secrets, conspired to hide mischief
from their parents. Instead, because their mother and father had died when
Susannah was fifteen, and Nikki only a toddler, Susannah had been forced into
the role of surrogate mother.
How Nikki had hated it, all these years. She had no idea that Susannah had hated
it, too. But she did—she hated the injustice of it. They’d both been cheated of
their parents. But they’d also been cheated of each other. Even after Nikki
passed through adolescence, they would probably never have the tight friendship
that real sisters should have.
Susannah squeezed her eyes, as if she could squeeze away the self-pity. She
didn’t have time to lament tragedies that had happened so long ago. She couldn’t
change the past. All she could hope was that maybe she could keep the present
and future from capsizing, too.
Suddenly, Zander was at Susannah’s elbow, wiping a dirty rag across his own
sweaty face. “Little brat broke the shaking machine.”
“What?”
Susannah looked again toward Eli and realized belatedly that the machine should
not have been silent and still. It should have been roaring and grumbling away,
moving among the trees, grabbing trunks with its tail-like pincers, and jostling
dime-sized peaches from branches like a blush-colored rain.
She sniffed, and finally she smelled it—the stench of steam and burning rubber
wafting through the orchard, a dark undercurrent below the sweetness of the
fruit-littered ground.
Eli seemed to think she was staring at him, because he smiled again, carving
dimples into his cheeks. He pointed the empty water bottle toward the shaking
machine, then used it to draw an imaginary line across his throat.
The message was clear. The machine was dead. And Eli thought it was mildly
amusing.
Well, he could afford to consider this a little gift from the go-home-early
gods, but Susannah wanted to cuss. It could take days to get it repaired. And
now that every fruit grower in central Texas was in the throes of thinning
season, where would she be able to borrow another one in the meantime?
“I knew it was too good to be true,” Zander muttered. “I knew all this perfect
employee crap was just an act.”
“It’s not Eli’s fault.” Somehow Susannah kept her voice cool. “It broke on you
last year, too, Zander. It’s just old. We need a new one.”
“We can’t afford a new one.”
She slapped her work gloves into the palm of her hand, trying to hold back the
retort that sprang to her lips. Of course she knew they couldn’t afford one. If
they hadn’t been in dire straits, did Zander think she would have sold herself
into a year of matrimonial bondage?
“Maybe,” she said, “Chase will loan us his.”
“Yes. You should ask Trent about it ASAP.” Zander frowned. “Where is he, anyhow?
Haven’t seen him around all weekend.”
That was, of course, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Where was her
brand-new husband? He had slept at Everly every night, she knew that. That first
night he’d used the sofa, but after that he’d confiscated her grandfather’s
bedroom. He came in late, then left again early in the morning.
Which was fine with her, of course. The less she saw of him, the better. Still,
she couldn’t help wondering where he went. To Chase’s ranch? Maybe. Running a
ranch that large could easily eat up your weekends, too.
But she couldn’t help wondering whether he might be going somewhere…softer.
To someone softer.
After all, he’d done it before.
She forced the image out of her mind. As long as he satisfied the will’s
requirements by spending the nights under her roof, she didn’t give a damn about
his days. And if she kept letting him disrupt her concentration, she was going
to be in even bigger trouble than she was already.
Her gaze drifted to the other workers, who were still moving toward them,
following the machine’s path, hand-thinning the small branches that hadn’t let
go of their bounty.
So much to do…so many people to pay.
Her mind began performing calculations at warp speed. If this was a big repair,
and it sure smelled that way, it would eat into the payroll, and then she’d be
behind on the—
“Die, you bastard! Die!”
Her heart pounding, she wheeled quickly, just in time to see that Eli had
grabbed a shovel and was violently slashing at the ground, just a couple of
yards away from the shaker’s cab.
For a split second, as he jumped and hollered, she wondered whether Zander and
Trent been right about Eli all along. Had she hired a madman?
But then she saw the rubbery-looking, writhing coils at Eli’s feet. A shiver
sped down her spine.
He was killing a very large rattlesnake.
Though it seemed to be happening in slow motion, it probably was over in less
than ten seconds, and the poor creature lay mangled in the dirt, thoroughly
destroyed. Several other workers, including Zander, gathered to get a better
look.
Eli’s cocky smile was gone, and his cheeks were pale beneath the sunburn. He
stared down at his palms, bloodied by the pitted metal on the old shovel’s
handle.
Then he raised a stricken face and glanced over at Susannah, as if he feared he
might have done the wrong thing.
“I’m sorry,” he said, in a voice that belonged to a much younger boy. “I just
saw him there, and I panicked.”
If she hadn’t been his employer, she would have put her arm around his shoulder,
the same way she might have comforted Nikki after a bad day at school. She
settled for offering a reassuring smile.
“You did great. Come on, let’s go back and get that blood cleaned up. Zander
will take care of all this.”
She ignored the older man’s look of irritation. The boy’s hands needed tending.
Besides, it was her fault he was hurt. That shovel should have been replaced
years ago, like so many other things on this spread.
She sighed as she started the truck, hearing the hesitation of a battery about
to go dead.
How many problems could she handle at once?

FIVE YEARS AGO, when Trent had accepted Chase’s offer to be the ranch manager at
the Double C, he had worked twenty-hour days for more than a year, sleeping on a
cot in the office, determined not to let Chase down.
He’d had so much to prove. He knew what everyone had thought when he’d left town
six years earlier, after the fire, while Paul still lay dying in that hospital
bed.
They’d thought he was a bad-tempered son of a bitch, who had been playing out of
his league for years and finally got exposed as the loser he really was. He knew
that’s what they’d thought, because that was what he’d thought, too.
So he’d run. He hadn’t known what else to do. The whole tragedy had been too
much to stand. He was only nineteen, and he’d messed up everything he cared
about in the whole stinking world. He’d cheated on Susannah, and then, in a fit
of pique, he’d punched his best friend, and somehow rained disaster down on them
all.
Sometimes, now, he could hardly remember how it happened. But sometimes it
played over in his head, as if it were a videotape caught in a slow-motion loop.
He had been in a rotten mood that night, furious with himself for succumbing to
Missy Snowdon’s cheap charms, and praying Susannah would never find out. They’d
all gone to a bar for dinner, and he had unwisely let himself drink too much.
Susannah and Paul had been flirting, and by the third beer, courtesy of friends
older than the legal limit, Trent hadn’t been able to pretend he didn’t care.
He’d said some things, and Paul had said some things, and before he knew what
was happening, his fist had been flying. That was when the nightmare took over.
He’d expected Paul to punch him back. He even wanted him to. Somehow he felt
that a little pain might make him feel less guilty for what he’d done with
Missy.
Instead, Paul tilted back, his jaw hanging open. He waved his arms, trying to
catch his balance, but he was already falling, falling, slamming into the bar’s
picnic table seats, his arms still windmilling like a cartoon.
When he hit the ground, so did the kerosene lantern that had looked so kitschy
and cute on the table.
The hay on the floor went up like a magician’s trick. Paul caught fire, too,
rolling at first, trying to get to his feet, then toppling over like a fireplace
log. Trent still heard him scream sometimes, and not just in his dreams. The
echo of Paul’s pain could come out of nowhere, using the voice of everyday
things. The cry of owls, the squeal of children playing. A rusty hinge on an old
screen door, or the screech of tires on a dangerous road.
The doctors had tried. Paul clung to life for months, mostly because his parents
wouldn’t disconnect the machines that kept him breathing. But everyone knew he
was gone.
And everyone knew who had killed him. Trent might as well have put a gun to
Paul’s head and pulled the trigger. In fact, it would have been a more merciful
death.
So, as soon as he realized it was hopeless, he’d run as far and as long as his
college savings would take him. He’d run until he’d hit the Pacific Ocean,
chased by the memories of Paul’s mutilated body and the curse in Susannah’s cold
eyes.
He’d run into another woman’s arms, and then another’s, and then another’s. He’d
even married one of them, though thank God she was a smart, cheerful woman, who
came to her senses before too long.
When Ginny realized her new husband was little more than a cardboard cutout, a
shell of a man, she divorced him as cheerfully as she’d married him.
On his twenty-fifth birthday, he had decided to come home. To face all the
ghosts, both the living and the dead. To make amends and, maybe, finally, make
something of himself.
But that was five years ago, and he was through proving things. Maybe he could
never completely silence Paul’s screams, but he had finally learned his own
worth. Anyone else who was still unconvinced could just remain that way.
Which was why, when he found himself yawning at work and realized he’d put in
about forty hours at this desk in the past two days, he decided that enough was
enough.
He was going home. He didn’t care whether Susannah was hanging around or not. He
was too damn tired to get all hot and bothered, not even if she was dancing on
the kitchen table wearing a whipped-cream G-string.
He almost made it back to Everly without getting snagged by work—it was the next
spread over, no more than fifteen minutes away—but at the last minute his phone
buzzed with a text message from Zander, something about a broken shaker. He was
tempted to ignore it, but the old guy sounded stressed, so he made some calls.
By the time he rolled into the Everly drive, he had Chase’s extra machine lined
up for the next two weeks. Still yawning, he walked to the stables, one end of
which had been converted into the foreman’s office, to tell Zander the good
news.
But Zander wasn’t there. Instead, Trent opened the door onto a cozy domestic
scene, with Susannah and Eli Breslin sitting knee to knee on Zander’s guest
chairs. The kid was half-naked and sweaty. Susannah was holding his hand.
Trent frowned, but then it made sense. The moron had managed to get hurt on his
very first day.
Susannah was bent over Eli’s outstretched fingers, utterly focused on wrapping a
bandage around his palm, and her braid fell over her shoulder. She had no idea
that Trent had arrived.
But Eli did.
He gave Trent a small smile, which spread across his dirty face until it was a
downright nasty grin. Everything Eli had probably heard from gossips about
Susannah’s new marriage was written in that leer. Trent might have been able to
fire Eli from the Double C, but Eli clearly knew that the “husband of
convenience” had no power at Everly. He knew that Trent was as much a temporary
employee here as Eli himself.
And he wanted Trent to know that he knew.
“Ouch,” Eli moaned softly as Susannah worked on the bandage. She murmured an
apology for hurting him. The boy smirked down at her, then turned to Trent and
slowly winked.
Obnoxious little bastard…
“There. That should hold.” Susannah held Eli’s hand up for him to inspect. “It
looked worse than it was.”
Eli bent in close, so that his face was only inches from Susannah’s. “Thank you,
Ms. Everly. You have mighty gentle hands.”
Clearing his throat, Trent moved into the small office, dodging a trophy that
teetered on a bookcase, proclaiming Alexander Hobbin to be the 1978 Men’s
Bowling Champ. If it had fallen over and beaned Eli on the head, that would have
been fine with Trent.
“So,” he said. “You think your new hire will live to work another day?”
Susannah looked up. If she felt any embarrassment at being caught holding hands
with a bare-chested teenage peach picker, she covered it well.
“Yes,” she said as she began to store her first aid supplies neatly away. “It
was just a little mishap. Minor abrasions.”
“I killed a rattler,” Eli put in, stretching out his legs and leaning back in
his chair nonchalantly, as if he performed such feats every day. “Nasty, big
one. Five feet, at least.”
“Taller than you are, then?” Trent smiled. “Impressive.”
“No.” Eli flushed angrily. “I’m five ten and a half.”
“And a half!” Trent raised his eyebrow. “Also impressive. I wouldn’t have
guessed.”
The boy’s face was a thundercloud. “Yeah, well, I hear that you—”
“Trent.” Susannah snapped the first aid kit shut and gave Trent a look that said
enough already.
She was right, of course. It was ridiculous to get into an ego-tussle with a
nineteen-year-old. But apparently, where Susannah was concerned, a part of Trent
would always be nineteen. Ready to lock horns with any other young buck who
tried to trespass on his turf.
“Did you need something, Trent? Were you looking for Zander? He’s still out in
the orchard, finishing up the thinning.”
“He messaged me about the shaker. I wanted to let him know we’ve rearranged
things at the Double C so that you can use Chase’s machine for the next couple
of weeks.”
“You don’t need to borrow one,” Eli broke in eagerly, like the smarmy teacher’s
pet everyone had hated in high school. “I’m good with machines. I bet I could
fix ours.”
Ours? The kid had worked here one half of one day, and already he owned the
equipment? Trent turned toward the brat, ready to let loose, but Susannah put
out her hand and touched Trent’s forearm lightly.
“Thanks, Eli,” she said, “but unless you can actually raise the dead, I’m afraid
it’s no use. We’ll be fine with the loaner. Please go let Mr. Hobbin know it’s
arranged, okay?”
Eli was caught for a moment, wedged between his desire to avenge himself with
Trent and his determination to impress Susannah.
Self-preservation won the day. He bobbed his head deferentially. “Yes, ma’am.
Thank you, ma’am.”
After he was gone, the silence in the office was fraught with tension.
Susannah put the kit away, locked the cabinet and then finally turned to Trent.
“Please tell Chase thanks. I appreciate the loan of the shaker.”
For some inexplicable reason, Trent was suddenly irritated. For one thing, Chase
didn’t even know about the loan. Trent was in charge of all such details at the
Double C. It was Trent who had made it possible.
But clearly there’d be snowball fights in Hell before Susannah would ever thank
Trent for anything.
She lifted her chin. “Was there anything else you needed?”
That ice-cold tone was the last straw. “Yeah,” he said. “One other thing. I
thought I’d just mention what a colossally bad idea it is to flirt with teenage
boys who happen to be on your payroll.”
Her eyebrows dived together. “I wasn’t flirting with him.”
“Really? Are you sure he knows that?”
“I’m quite sure.” She stood ramrod straight, clearly offended. “Is that why you
were being such an ass to him? Because you thought we were…flirting?”
Trent sat on the corner of Zander’s desk, the only spot not covered in files and
papers and junk. “No, I was being an ass to him because he is a cocky little
loser who hasn’t ever done an honest day’s work in his life, and I can’t believe
you were dumb enough to hire him.”
She’d gone slightly pale, which he knew from long experience was a sign of fury.
He braced himself for the storm, and as he did he realized that, in some strange
way, he welcomed the fight.
At least it would be real emotion. A real connection.
And, God help him, he still craved that. All that crap about being too exhausted
to desire her? He’d been sunk the minute he saw the curve of her back as she’d
bent over Eli’s hand, and the way the sunlight created a halo around her head.
It had been enough to send the hunger raging through him all over again. He
wouldn’t get what he really wanted, of course. But a good, rousing battle might
at least siphon off some of this tension.
She took a couple of deep breaths, obviously determined to hold on to her
temper. She placed herself behind the desk, as if she thought its scarred oak
surface could provide the buffer zone she clearly needed.
But it wasn’t a very big desk.
“How I run Everly is none of your business.” She straightened some papers on the
desk, a ridiculously futile gesture. “That wasn’t part of our deal.”
Her fingers trembled as they nudged another sheet of paper into line. The pause
stretched until it shimmered in the room like ectoplasm.
“Oh, yes,” he said slowly. “The deal.”
She didn’t look up. But her grip tightened, crumpling the edge of the file she
held.
“The deal,” he repeated. He reached out and took her wrist between his fingers.
“We did have one, didn’t we?”
She tensed, though she didn’t try to pull back her hand. “Trent, I don’t think
we should—”
“I do.”
She lifted her chin. “Look, I know you’re angry.”
He ran his thumb across the inside of her wrist, until he found the pulse,
jumping and skittering between the delicate bones. “Am I?”
“Well, you’ve been gone all weekend. I’m not a fool, Trent. I know what that
means.”
He thought of Peggy, of the secret trips he’d been making to Darlonsville for
five years now. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know. He hadn’t wanted to look as if
he did it only for the good public relations it might bring.
“And what do you think it means?”
“It means…” She bit her lower lip. “I know where you must have been, who you
must have been with. Even though, when we agreed to do this, you promised me
that there would be no other women, not while we were married.”
He tugged her wrist slightly. She either had to wrestle herself free or come
around the desk to meet him. She chose to come around, though it brought her
close enough that he could see the nervous twitch next to the corner of her
mouth.
Ah…she felt more fear now than anger. In a perverse way, that pleased him. It
proved he still had power.
And he saw something else, too. A physical awareness of him that heated the
surface of her cheeks.
It made him ache, being so close to her, smelling her, hating her and wanting
her all at the same time. It was as if someone had shoved a hot brand against
the small of his back.
“I did promise I’d be faithful,” he said, careful to keep his tone lightly
ironic. “But that was when I believed I’d be getting what I needed here at
home…within the marriage bed, so to speak.”
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, of course I see the difference. So that’s why I
wanted to make you an offer. I understand that it’s a…a hardship to have to…to
do without sex for a full year, and…”
He smiled. Her pulse had tripped on itself from the effort to even say the word
sex.
“And?”
She swallowed, blinking as she tried to hold his gaze. “And I’d like to make it
up to you. Financially, I mean. I was thinking ten thousand dollars for every
month we’re married. That’s one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, when the
year is up, when I can sell the acres I need, and—”
He tilted his head, chuckling softly. “You’re offering to pay me not to have sex
with you?”
“No…I’m paying you for not having it with anyone else, not while we’re married.
It’s hard to—” She swallowed and tried again. “If you have a mistress while I’m
your wife, it’ll be—well, everyone will say it’s just like before. I’ll be the
laughing stock of Texas. I’d prefer not to be shamed like that…not again.”
He cursed inwardly. It always came back to that, didn’t it? Eleven years ago,
he’d made a mistake, and, in her eyes, it would forever define the man he was.
He felt his hand tighten on her wrist, as the frustration, the anger and the
hunger tied every muscle in his body into knots.
“You must agree it’s generous, Trent. A hundred and twenty thousand—”
“Oh, sure. It’s generous.”
He couldn’t stand it anymore. Without thinking, he pulled her toward him. She
wasn’t expecting it, and she stumbled, practically falling into his arms. Her
body was stiff, but her flesh trembled. He let his palms encircle her waist, and
they met around the slim curves, just as they used to do.
She stared up at him. He didn’t apologize, didn’t let go. He stroked her rib
cage with his thumbs.
“Trent…”
“Your offer is generous as hell, Susannah. But money isn’t what I want.” He
angled her even closer, close enough to feel the heat that throbbed through him.
“You know what I want.”
“But what you want—you can’t…what about the paper?” She seemed to be struggling
to catch a breath, inhaling softly between each word. “You won’t…sign it?”
“No, I won’t sign it, Sue, but there are other ways.”
“Other ways to…what?”
Her lips were half-open, peach-pink wet and glimmering in the sunlight. They
were ripe and soft. And he remembered exactly how they had tasted. How they had
felt, on him, around him. For eleven long years, even in dreams, he had been
haunted by the memory of their warmth, their hidden strength….
A painful heat swelled inside him. She might hate him, but he must have this. He
refused to go on burning and wanting, and being forever denied.
Though she wouldn’t admit it, she burned, too, and he would follow that fiery
path until he found his way in.
“Trent. Tell me what you mean.”
He let his body answer her. He placed his palms against her buttocks, and moved
her hips toward him slowly, by agonizing inches, letting his heat find hers. He
watched what it did to her. He watched her eyes struggle not to lose focus,
watched her throat hold back the moan that wanted to break free.
Somehow she hung on to her question, as if it were a life raft, as if it could
take her to a different answer. “Other ways for what?”
“Other ways for husbands and wives to know each other. Please each other. Ways
that don’t risk making babies.”
She stopped breathing entirely. “You can’t mean—”
“Yes, I can. There are lots of ways to make love, Susannah.” Trent let her go
abruptly, smiled and moved toward the door. “And before this year is over, we’re
going to discover every one of them.”
CHAPTER FOUR
IT WASN’T EASY to sleep that night. Every noise Susannah heard, even the
familiar oak branch that had scratched against her window since she was six,
made her heart race. Outside, the night seemed to go on forever, the
mushroom-colored moon caught in a soup of gray clouds. Inside, every creaking
floorboard, every snap, groan or sigh from the old house, sounded like Trent
coming to find her.
Trent, coming to lie beside her in the darkness and, with his angry lips and
determined hands, somehow force her to keep her promise.
She woke up feeling wrung out and muddy-headed. And oddly lonely. In some ways,
she missed Nikki. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to. But
sitting around gabbing was a luxury she could rarely afford—and it wasn’t
something Nikki enjoyed much, anyhow. So she tried just to be glad she didn’t
have to make breakfast for Nikki and nag her out the door to school.
She did have to get up, though. She was due at the burn center by nine, and
there was no way to avoid it. She went in only two mornings a week during peach
season, and Rachel, her gung-ho administrative assistant, would undoubtedly have
scheduled a dozen meetings, phone calls and interviews.
So Susannah put on her best spring suit and extra lipstick, and made her way
across town. She sent up a little prayer that no big problems would present
themselves today, and that maybe she could get home early.
No such luck.
“Susannah, thank God you’re here.” Rachel stood up from her chair when she saw
her boss. “You’re not going to believe what Dr. Mahaffey’s wife did.”
Susannah moved into her office and put down her purse, trying to refrain from
pointing out that she didn’t care what Dr. Mahaffey’s wife did. Obviously, she
couldn’t say such a thing. Dr. Mahaffey was the retired chief of surgery for the
burn center, and his wife had organized some of their most successful
fund-raisers. So what Mrs. Mahaffey did was always important.
Especially to the executive coordinator of donor/volunteer affairs. And that was
Susannah.
“What did she do?” Susannah managed a smile, because she knew the answer would
be something hilarious. Spunky, opinionated, energetic Maggie Mahaffey was
eighty-two, nine years older than her exhausted husband, and most of the time
she lived on Mars.
Rachel stood in the doorway between the offices and held out a plate heaped with
pie. “She sent in a recipe for the peach book.”
Susannah set down the stack of color-coded phone messages she’d just grabbed and
stared at the plate, as if she expected it to explode. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” Rachel nodded, her full lips pressed so tightly you almost couldn’t
see her signature-red lipstick. “Taste it.”
Susannah laughed and took a step backward. “I’ll take your word for it. What’s
wrong this time? Six pounds of sugar? How that woman has managed to avoid
diabetes is a mystery to me.”
“No sugar. This time she added mint.” Rachel widened her eyes dramatically.
“Mint. And…cashews.”
Susannah’s mouth just hung open, seemingly unable to respond to her order to
close. “Cashews in her peach pie?”
“Yes. Cashews.” Rachel wasn’t easily rattled, but this clearly had shaken her.
“What are we going to do, Susannah? It’s indescribably gross. I brushed my teeth
twice, and I still taste it.”
Susannah sat on the edge of her desk, suddenly tired. Given what she was going
through back at Everly, a disgusting peach pie simply didn’t seem important.
“I’ll just have to create a typo. The line about the cashews will mysteriously
drop off.”
“Again? You did that last year, with the sugar! Mrs. Mahaffey tried to get you
fired then. If you do it again, she’ll have your head.”
“She’s welcome to it.” Susannah reached one more time for the phone messages.
Red meant “urgent” and the stack was about ninety percent red. “Did the
volunteer training session go all right?”
Rachel set the pie down on her desk, giving it one last grimace and a shudder.
Then she turned back to Susannah, putting on her professional face. “Yeah, it’s
going great. They’re on day two now, and it’s a pretty big group this time. Ten
volunteers…no, wait, eleven.”
Susannah looked up. This was unusual. Rachel certainly had the authority to slip
a latecomer into the training program without clearing it with her boss, but she
didn’t often do it. The volunteer application had a box for Susannah’s
signature, and Rachel wasn’t comfortable with empty boxes.
Susannah wondered who the new recruit was. Nell Bollinger had been promising to
sign up, but word was the Bollingers had just found pinkeye in their cattle, so
this probably wasn’t the week she’d finally decide to follow through.
“Eleven is excellent. Who is the new one? Do you remember her name?”
A stupid question, actually. Rachel was so detail oriented she undoubtedly knew
the names, addresses, telephone numbers and shoe sizes of all eleven newbies by
heart.
“Yes, of course! In fact, she said she was a friend of yours. Let’s see. That
one was Missy Griffin.” She frowned slightly. “No, wait. She said she’d just
gotten a divorce and gone back to her maiden name. Missy…Missy Snowdon. That’s
right.”
Missy Snowdon…
Her chest suddenly tight, Susannah stared down at the telephone messages. She
struggled to keep her face impassive.
Surely she’d heard wrong. Or else Rachel had remembered wrong.
For one thing, Missy Snowdon had left Texas years ago. She’d gone to Hollywood,
or maybe Vegas…one of those cities that act like magnets on women who are mostly
made of collagen and silicone and bleach.
For another, Missy Snowdon wasn’t the volunteering type. She was a player, not a
worker. A taker, not a giver.
“Um…” Rachel tilted her head, obviously unsettled by something she saw in
Susannah’s face. “I hope I didn’t do the wrong thing. I never would have let her
sign up if she hadn’t said she was your friend. If that’s not true—”
“It’s okay,” Susannah said. “It’s true. We were…we went to high school
together.”
She couldn’t bring herself to speak the word friends. Once, she’d thought so,
but…
As she’d said, Missy Snowdon was a taker. And what she’d taken from Susannah was
Trent.
Rachel still looked worried, her brow furrowed. “Are you sure? The class is
observing in Restorative this morning. I could go over and pull her out—”
“No, no, don’t be silly. We don’t have so many volunteers that we can afford to
chase one away.”
Rachel nodded. She knew what a struggle it was to fill the positions.
Susannah managed a smile. “I should get to these phone messages, I suppose. I
can’t stay long today.”
“Oh, of course, what was I thinking? Call Dr. Grieve first. Then Mrs. McManus.
Be sure to leave Des Barkley at the Daily Grower for last. He wants an interview
about the peach party, which is good, but you know how he talks.”
Susannah nodded. She knew.
It wasn’t easy, but somehow she got through the stack by noon. Some of it really
was urgent. Some of it was downright boring. But at least it kept her mind off
other things.
Like Trent.
And Missy Snowdon.
Susannah wished she’d had the nerve to ask Rachel how Missy looked. Back in high
school, Missy had been the fairy princess, with a waterfall of blond hair and
round, lash-heavy blue eyes. But the looks had been deceiving. Underneath all
that innocent beauty beat the heart of a tiger.
For Missy Snowdon, a day without risk was a day without sunshine. She shoplifted
trinkets she could easily afford, cheated on tests she was sure to ace anyhow.
She ignored stop signs and streetlights, even when she had all the time in the
world, gaily waving her beer can at every policeman she passed.
And boys…she could have had anyone in the school, from the greenest freshman to
the married principal himself. But she had been picky. She wanted only the best.
And only the ones who were already taken.
Like Trent.
Susannah tapped her pen against the calendar blotter. Finally, she stood up,
unable to resist temptation any longer. Forget playing it cool. She had to see
Missy for herself.
It would probably make her feel much better. Surely another decade of bleaching,
boozing and bed-hopping had taken its toll. If there was any justice in this
world, Missy probably looked a rode-hard fifty, and that would be a sight for
sore eyes.
Susannah made her way to Restorative, passing from the relative quiet of the
administrative wing to the noisy corridors of the clinic. Though she hurried, it
was the lunch hour, and the trail was a bit of an obstacle course.
When she reached the small room where special restorative nurses were feeding
the patients, she realized she was too late. The volunteers didn’t hang out in
any of the working areas. They would be intruding. They just stood to the side,
observed quietly, then moved to a classroom for further discussion.
Darn. Susannah had lost her chance to do this the easy way. Of course, as the
coordinator of volunteers, she had every right to poke her head into the
training classroom and summon Missy Snowdon up for inspection any time she
wanted. She had the power around here, not Missy. For once.
But she didn’t want to use it. What would be the point? If she treated Missy
badly, it would only prove that she still held a grudge, which would make her
look pathetic. Their troubles had happened nearly eleven years ago, practically
in another lifetime. They’d barely been out of high school, for heaven’s sake.
High school dramas had no power here, in the real world.
Just when she almost had herself convinced, a low, throaty laugh came from the
west wing. The sound went right through her brave facade, like a dart busting a
cheap balloon.
It had to be Missy. Because Susannah suddenly felt insecure and jealous and
angry as hell.
She looked down the hall and saw a blond woman moving toward her, flanked by two
handsome, white-coated doctors who bent over her as solicitously as they would
any critically ill patient in their care.
Susannah instinctively turned her head away, pretending to read a flyer at the
nurses’ station while the trio floated by, still laughing. She caught only a
momentary flash of Missy, but that was enough.
Damn it. The woman was more beautiful than ever, still a princess in her
candy-pink pinafore, still sashaying her hips as if she walked to secret salsa
music. Still flashing the wide white smile that dazzled quarterbacks, traffic
cops, algebra teachers—and apparently surgeons—into instant enslavement.
“Ms. Everly?” Evelyn Marks, the charge nurse, had returned to the station and
sounded surprised to see Susannah standing there. That made sense. This wasn’t
Susannah’s part of the building.
“Sorry…I mean Mrs. Maxwell.” Evelyn smiled. “I guess I gotta get used to that.”
Susannah looked up just in time to see Missy and the doctors disappear onto the
elevator. She turned to the nurse, who had been a casual friend for years. “Me,
too, Evvy.”
Evelyn, a bouncy, round mother of six daughters, three of whom were also nurses
at the center, grinned. “You look tired. How’s married life treating you?”
Susannah hesitated. But, like everyone else, Evvy knew the situation, so there
was no point pretending to be a dewy-eyed bride.
“Well, it’s…tricky,” she admitted, opting for at least a degree of honesty.
Evvy laughed, but Susannah’s ears were tuned to the tinkling sound as the
elevator doors slid shut.
Missy was gone. For now. But even as Susannah breathed a sigh of relief, she
knew she’d been a coward. And it was only a temporary reprieve. Sooner or later,
she’d encounter her old nemesis face-to-face.
More importantly, so would Trent.

TRENT HAD his bulky work gloves on, and he’d just arranged the chain saw, pole
pruner and baling cord under one arm and the old wooden paint ladder under the
other, so naturally his cell phone chose that moment to ring.
He glanced back into the garage, where Zander was working on a broken hedge
clipper.
The old man laughed. “Women,” he said with a snort. “They have the devil’s
timing, don’t they? Want me to tell Trixie Mae Sexpot to get lost for you?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Trent wasn’t expecting any calls from females, but he stood still as Zander
reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the phone. He would have let it go
to voice mail, except that he was stealing these last few hours of daylight from
the Double C and using them to cut back the worst dead branches on Everly’s old
oaks. If the Double C had a problem, he was honor bound to deal with it.
“Trent Maxwell’s phone. Zander Hobbin speaking.” Zander listened for a few
seconds, during which his teasing expression soured into one of real annoyance.
“No, Maxy isn’t available. You can tell by how he didn’t answer the phone. See
how that works, sugar?”
Trent felt his eyebrows draw together, and the chain saw slipped an inch under
his elbow. Maxy? No one called him Maxy. Not anymore. Not since high school. And
the only one who’d done it, even then, was…
“Who?” Zander cut a strange look toward Trent. “Missy Snowdon? Oh, you bet I
remember you. Sure, I’ll tell him. But just between you and me, don’t hold your
breath on that callback. Trent got married last week. You been gone a long time,
so I’ll just assume you didn’t know, or you wouldn’t have called, right?”
Trent could hear the high, quick voice still talking on the other end as Zander
snapped the phone shut. The older man glowered at Trent from under his bushy
eyebrows.
“I heard that little minx was back in town, but I didn’t think she’d have the
nerve to call you, just like that.” He ran his upper lip through his teeth, as
if he were trying to comb the mustache that tickled down over it. “Unless…you
didn’t make the first move, did you, son?”
Trent raised one eyebrow. That tone might have worked if Trent had been ten and
had got caught with his hands in the wrong cookie jar, but not now. Trent
wouldn’t have telephoned Missy Snowdon if she were the last woman surviving this
side of Saturn, but frankly, who he called or didn’t call wasn’t Zander’s
business.
“What’s wrong, Zan? She is pretty hot. You jealous?”
Zander started to bluster, but he must have noticed the tucked corner of Trent’s
grin, because he ended up grunting and shaking his head.
“Jealous about Missy Snowdon? Hell, no. I wouldn’t dream of going barefoot into
that particular mud puddle.” He slipped the phone back into Trent’s jacket with
two fingers, as if Missy Snowdon had infected it with something disgusting. “And
neither should you, my friend. Neither should you.”
“I don’t go barefoot anywhere.” Trent smiled. “Your generation might not have
learned that, but ours has.”
Zander grunted again, clearly aware he wasn’t going to get anything but sardonic
deflections, no matter how long he probed. Trent had mastered this technique in
grade school. He could bat away Zander’s curiosity all day long.
The two men were friendly colleagues, as managers of adjacent spreads tended to
be, but they weren’t confidants. Forty years stood between them, and so did
Trent’s natural preference for emotional privacy.
Zander slapped his hands against his overalls, raising dust in the sunbeams that
angled into the dim garage like transparent gold two-by-fours. “So go on, then.
Light’s fading. Don’t you have some limbs to cut?”
He did. It was one of many chores that desperately needed doing around here. He
had been spending a lot of time at Everly over the past few days, ever since
Harrison’s weird warning about Peggy. He didn’t really believe Peggy could pose
a threat to anyone, but still…he didn’t like the thought of Susannah here in
this big old house, all alone.
Besides, the place could use an extra pair of hands, especially ones that came
without a salary attached. He hadn’t noticed just how run-down the place had
become since old man Everly had died.
He propped his ladder up against the first oak. This one had a couple of dead
branches that, given the right amount of wind, could easily fall right on the
east porch roof. As he snapped the ladder’s hinged stays into place, he noticed
Eli Breslin over by the barn, slouching against the wall, staring at Trent.
Little bastard. He never did a lick of work around here, did he? He might as
well be dipping his hand into Susannah’s wallet and lifting out the cash.
“Hey, Breslin,” Trent called. “If you’re not busy, why don’t you come cut some
branches?”
Eli straightened, though the insolent look didn’t drop from his face. He shook
his head, the blond curls catching the late-afternoon sunlight. “Can’t. Got to
work on the shaker.”
And then, as if he’d been planning all along to do so, he sauntered toward the
back drive, where the old machine had been dragged yesterday after it died in
the south forty. He glanced back at Trent, then picked up a wrench and proceeded
to peer under the open hood.
Well, that was at least half an hour’s work Susannah would get out of the brat
today.
Trent went back to setting up his tools. Zander was right. The light was fading
fast. He wouldn’t get much done today. The older man had been right about
another thing, too. Trent should have waited until he could have borrowed a good
extension ladder from the Double C. Though Everly probably owned about a hundred
ladders, they were all in use for the thinning, which would continue right up
until harvest.
This old stepladder—the only one Susannah had kept for private use—was a mess,
with half-mangled feet that wouldn’t settle level on the root-braided ground.
But the branches were his excuse for hanging around Everly this afternoon, so he
needed to cut a few. Susannah would have laughed out loud if he’d admitted that
Harrison Archer’s comment had spooked him. She would have countered in her
typical dry way that if she needed a guard dog, she’d buy one at the pound.
He looked toward the house. He could just barely make out Susannah’s silhouette
at the window of the sunroom. She’d been in there for a couple of hours now,
going over estate details with Richard Doyle, the arrogant twit who was the
executor of her grandfather’s will.
Doyle might have been one of the reasons Trent had felt the need to stick
around. Trent didn’t like him, but that didn’t mean much. Trent never liked guys
like Doyle—guys who bought handkerchiefs to match their ties, which they’d
bought to match their eyes, which they’d faked up with tinted contact lenses.
And he might as well be honest. He’d never liked any guy who dared to buzz
around Susannah. It was habit, he supposed, but it clearly was a habit he wasn’t
going to break. Not after twenty-one years, ten with her and eleven without her.
He was more likely to break the habit of breathing.
He wondered if she had the same problem. He wondered, for instance, how she
would react to the news that Missy Snowdon had just called him.
Not that he planned to tell her. Missy’s name was radioactive. It would burn his
lips to say it and Susannah’s ears to hear it. Maybe it wasn’t fair. Missy
wasn’t to blame for their troubles—the tragedy had been Trent’s fault, from
beginning to end. But somehow Missy Snowdon had become more than just a trashy
girl chasing another girl’s man. She’d become iconic. A symbol.
Doves meant peace, rainbows meant hope, roses meant love.
Missy Snowdon meant betrayal and death.
He hadn’t seen her in nearly a dozen years. He’d heard she was back in town,
but, like Zander, Trent had assumed she’d know better than to call.
He and Susannah had little enough chance of making this marriage work without
throwing Missy into the mix. You might as well dig up an old corpse, toss it
onto the table, then ask everyone to enjoy their meal.
He bent over, set the choke on the chain saw. He gave the cord a yank, perhaps a
little harder than necessary. Eli was watching him again, as if the boy hoped
Trent would have trouble getting the tool started. But the chain saw zoomed into
life, its teeth circling furiously, like a mad dog snapping, eager to chomp into
something and tear it to shreds.
Trent climbed the ladder, careful not to ascend any higher than he needed to.
Heights and chain saws didn’t mix. But the limb was farther up than it appeared
from the ground. Mildly irritated, he put one foot on the fourth step, then
reached out with the chain saw and let it sink into the brittle, sapless limb.
The wood cracked, split and tumbled to the ground before the blade sank even
halfway through it. It had been ready to go, that was for sure. He needed to get
all this dead wood out of here before the summer storms started, even if it
meant delegating some of the paperwork at the Double C.
He glanced at the tractor, just beyond the tree’s branches. Eli was gone, the
little slacker. Trent scanned the yard, his gaze ending at the back porch. He
was surprised to see a man standing there. Would Eli really dare to—
But it wasn’t Eli. It was Doyle. Dapper as ever, the lawyer posed like a GQ
model, one foot cocked up against the white scrolled balustrade. His gold silk
tie and handkerchief matched his hair.
Somebody should tell the fool that women didn’t like their men to be prettier
than they were.
Richard held a cocktail in his hand, a signal that the business part of his
visit was over. Though Susannah must have provided the drink, she was nowhere in
sight.
The porch was about twenty yards away, so it was hard to be sure, but the lawyer
seemed to be staring up at the tree where Trent was working. And his handsome
face seemed hard, set with hostile intensity that almost exactly replicated the
anger Trent had glimpsed on Eli’s face earlier.
Trent sighed. This could get old.
None of the men in Susannah’s life trusted him. And they were jealous as hell.
Okay, fair enough. He got that. The green-eyed monster wasn’t exactly a stranger
to him, either.
But too bad. Trent was her husband, at least for the next year, and all the
wannabes, the sycophants and the stuffed shirts she’d passed over when making
her choice would just have to deal with it.
Suddenly, Doyle raised his drink in a stiff salute.
“Afternoon, Maxwell,” he called. He sipped the drink, then smiled. “Better watch
your step up there.”
“Yeah.” Trent nodded. “Thanks.” But he felt irrationally irritated. Naturally,
Doyle thought cutting trees was dangerous. It was real physical labor, as
foreign to the pencil pusher as scaling the craters of the moon.
Or was Trent just regressing again? Resenting the rich boys who never smelled
like wood chips…or sweat?
Get over it, Maxwell, he told himself. That chip on his shoulder was every bit
as pointless as Doyle’s gold silk pocket square.
He held the chain saw above the next limb, then let it fall slowly, the blade
slicing into the wood, sending off chips like sparks from a diamond cutter’s
wheel. But this branch wasn’t completely dead. It resisted, and Trent had to put
muscle behind it. He leaned over, adding his other foot to the fourth step for
balance.
And suddenly, without any warning he could hear over the roar of the chain saw,
the step gave way, the old bolt pulled away from the frame, and the plank
jackknifed right under his feet.
As he felt himself go, he somehow had the presence of mind to release the chain
saw. It died immediately and dropped, whining, like a missile to the ground.
The millisecond after, Trent’s whole body did the same.
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS TWO IN THE MORNING. After a long evening poring through payroll records,
Susannah yawned while she roamed the first floor, checking dead bolts and
turning off lights.
As she passed the staircase that led down to the wine cellar, she heard a
strange scrabbling noise deep in its shadows.
For a moment, she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. The wine cellar
had been her grandfather’s last folly, a ridiculous expenditure better suited to
the millionaire rancher he’d once been than the struggling, debt-ridden peach
farmer he’d become.
She used the front part of the cellar now for preserves, and the occasional
bottle of peach wine. The back half, beyond the wrought iron wine door, had
become a mess of storage and clutter. Boxes of sentimental junk, yard games,
canopies and chairs that came out only for parties, furniture too broken to sit
in but too fine for the dump.
Her grandfather’s ghost would be appalled.
Luckily, she didn’t believe in ghosts.
But she heard the noise again, so it hadn’t been her imagination, either. It
must be Trent down there, rooting around in the dark. She wondered why, then
remembered that she’d mentioned she needed to dig out the tents and get them
cleaned for the peach party.
She hadn’t been hinting for him to do it. Had he thought she was? It wouldn’t
have crossed her mind to ask him to lug anything so heavy, not after taking that
hard fall this afternoon.
She felt a nip, like a small bee sting of guilt, deep in her conscience. She
hadn’t even properly thanked him for his work on the trees, much less offered
any TLC for his injury. Pitching in on odd jobs at Everly was above and beyond
anything their “agreement” required of him. And things were such a mess around
here that she was deeply grateful for any extra help from anyone.
She just hadn’t known how to show it without feeling vulnerable. Only anger felt
truly safe, and she hadn’t had the courage to retreat from it, even when he
clearly deserved better treatment.
Relations between them were obviously going to remain complicated, but that
didn’t absolve her from the obligation to show decent manners. She made her way
down the stairs quickly. She had on only a nightshirt, but it was old and
grubby, and no one could construe it as a come-on.
“Trent? Please don’t bother with the tents tonight. They weigh a ton, and you
shouldn’t—”
To her surprise, he was sitting at the center tasting table, with a bottle of
peach schnapps and a shot glass laid out before him on the recycled-wine-barrel
surface. The recessed lighting her grandfather had installed overhead picked out
blue-black diamonds in his hair, but the rest of him was mostly in shadow.
“Oh.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs. “I’m sorry. I thought you might be
trying to find the tents.”
“No.” He lifted the bottle and topped off the glass. “Just stealing a little
home-made painkiller. If I took the stuff Doc Marchant left, I’d be a zombie
tomorrow.”
She glanced at his hand, which had a small bandage on the palm, and then his
leg, which he had stretched out before him in an ever-so-slightly unnatural
position. His jeans covered the cut on his calf, so she couldn’t judge how bad
it was.
“Does it hurt a lot?”
“Nothing the schnapps won’t cure.” He jiggled the bottle, sending little white
fairy lights scampering over the brick walls. “This stuff packs a punch.”
She knew it was true. When her grandfather had run out of money less than
halfway through stocking these Malaysian mahogany racks, she’d found him down
here almost every night, brooding over his laptop, researching wines he’d never
buy and getting plastered on peach schnapps.
But although liquor had always made her grandfather meaner, it seemed to be
mellowing Trent. His voice sounded almost warm, as if the drink famous for
thawing out Alpine skiers had finally cut through the ice inside him, too.
“I heard Doc Marchant had to sew up your calf.” She cringed, imagining.
“Nineteen stitches, is that right?”
Trent shook his head. “That sounds like Zander’s usual hyperbole. It was only
six stitches, and only because Marchant is a worrywart. I’ve had worse cuts from
sliding down rocks at Green Fern Pool.”
She would have believed him, except that she’d seen the blood.
She still wasn’t sure how it had happened. The memory had the disjointed quality
of a nightmare. She’d just met Richard on the back porch when she heard the
crash of something heavy and metallic slamming into the ground. And then, before
she could identify the cause, she saw Trent tumble from the ladder.
Without thinking, she flew down onto the lawn, her heart racing. She called out
his name. No pausing to consider her dignity. No wondering whether he’d want her
help.
Pure reflex. Pure gut.
The ladder wasn’t all that high, thank God, and it was clear immediately that
there was no grave danger. While she knelt in the grass beside him, trying to
still her heart and catch her breath, he pulled himself to his feet and shook
himself off with a smile.
Within seconds, Zander, too, came running from the other side of the yard. The
two men walked off together to check out what they insisted was just a scrape.
The message had been clear. Trent hadn’t wanted her to fuss over him then, and
he certainly wouldn’t want it now.
“Well, I guess I should go,” she said after an awkward pause. “I just wanted to
be sure you weren’t trying to haul out those tents. I was headed—”
She hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable about mentioning bed, for fear it might
sound like an invitation. But the hesitation was conspicuous, too. “Headed
upstairs.”
He looked amused, though he didn’t say anything.
Argh. She leaned her head against the cool bricks and shut her eyes for a
second. Did every road lead to sex?
“I wanted to tell you…I’m really sorry about the ladder,” she said, eager to
change the subject. “As you can see, I’ve had to let a lot of the repairs and
maintenance slide lately.”
“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I won’t sue.”
She couldn’t help smiling back. “That’s only because you know there’s nothing to
get.”
He raised one eyebrow, toying with his empty shot glass with the tips of his
fingers. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. No money, maybe.”
The cellar’s extravagant, Internet-monitored thermostat and humidity control
system had long ago been disabled, but suddenly the temperature in the shadowy
room seemed to drop ten degrees. Susannah looked at his fingers, and something
about their slow grace made her shiver.
The way he looked at her…
There was no mistaking what he meant.
Suddenly she realized what a foolish mistake she’d made, letting guilt send her
down here. She knew he hadn’t given up his plan to make her pay, and wasn’t this
the perfect spot, with its cool seclusion, the musty smell of old wine and the
sticky sweet scent of peaches? He must have known she’d come. He’d waited here,
like a panther, in the dark.
And she’d fallen right into the trap. She was the moronic horror movie heroine
who, even knowing there was a killer in the house, still decided to investigate
the spooky noises in the basement.
“But then,” he went on, “money hasn’t ever been my weakness.”
His voice made her shiver, too. She crossed her arms in front, holding them by
the elbows, trying to warm herself. “Trent, I really should go to—”
“To bed. Yes, I know. We can do that, too, if you like. Later.”
“That isn’t what I meant. You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”
“I think we understand each other perfectly.” He held out a hand, palm up. The
bandage gleamed in the recessed lights. “You made a bargain, and it’s time to
keep it. I promise you it won’t be too painful. It will meet all your terms,
Sue. All pleasure. No risk. No repercussions.”
She flushed, well aware of what he wanted. Oral sex. He wanted her to take him
into her mouth, and her hands, and make him come. Back when they first made
love, at only eighteen, he’d begged her to. He’d told her that all girls did it.
All men wanted it.
But she’d been afraid, afraid that she wouldn’t know how, that she wouldn’t be
good enough, that she’d try and try, humiliating herself, only to fail.
She’d been such a prissy lover, she knew that now. Such a tame little Puritan.
Only in the back of the car, only with their clothes on, only on the bottom,
only in the dark.
She’d been so naive, in fact, that when she stumbled on Trent and Missy Snowdon
in the abandoned playground that rainy midnight, sitting together on the swing,
she had no idea what was happening.
She hadn’t been able to see him all day. Her grandfather had company and he
required her to be on hostess duty. Trent, of course, hadn’t been invited. By
late night, she knew that Trent probably wasn’t expecting her to show up at the
playground, where they sometimes met. But she sneaked out anyhow, hoping against
hope that he might have gone there, too, just in case. Surely he wanted to see
her as much as she wanted to see him.
The sound reached her first, the grind of metal against metal as someone pumped
the swing rhythmically back and forth. She heard throaty laughter, and other
noises that were harder to identify.
She peered toward the swing set, off in a corner. Rain diamonds winked as
moonlight caught on the metal legs and the thick, glistening rod of the frame.
She saw the groaning swing move back and forth, never going very high, two sets
of hands gripping the wet chains, slipping, gripping again.
At first she thought they were just playing. Doubled up, with Missy in Trent’s
lap, the way children might do just for the crazy fun of flying backward. Limbs
tangled, hair flying, sharing the thrill.
Shock made her stupid. She worried, like an idiot, whether the chains were
strong enough to hold them both, with Trent so tall, so much heavier than any
child.
But then Missy’s groans turned to soft screams, and the swing’s rhythm became
jerky, spasming as Trent’s heels dug into the ground, finding traction to push
harder, thrust faster, finding his own orgasm there in the rain.
And then, finally, far, far too late, Susannah understood. Understood that he
had needed more than an uptight little prude.
That she wasn’t enough for him.
That the world as she knew it was over.
She wondered why the memory still hurt so much, when she’d hardly thought of
that night in years.
Was it because she was finally old enough to see what an idiot she’d been to run
away that night, scalded, to nurse her wounds in private and concoct a revenge
plot as stupid as flirting with Paul? She knew now that she should have charged
right up to that swing set and overturned the cheating bastard headfirst into
the dirt. Even if she’d scratched Missy Snowdon’s eyes out, that would have been
a more mature way to handle it. It couldn’t have saved their relationship, but
it might have saved Paul’s life.
Or maybe the memory felt so fresh and raw again because she realized that she
owed Trent. She had made a deal with him, and he’d kept his part of the bargain.
After all these years, she was going to have to live up to her part of their
agreement and let him touch her again…something he hadn’t done since that night.
“All right,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll give you what you want. But only
because I know you, and I know that if you don’t get what you need here, you’ll
go looking for it somewhere else.”
He didn’t answer. He just sat there, waiting, as if he didn’t care what her
reasons were. The king, waiting for his subject to perform.
She felt something harden inside her. She crossed the marble floor in five
steps. He still sat in the chair, with his leg stretched out at that odd angle.
She took a breath, then, holding the arms of his chair for stability, she sank
to her knees in front of him.
“I’ll do it, because I won’t be a laughingstock for you again.”
He smiled oddly. “And because you promised this would be a real marriage?
Because you used that promise to get me to marry you? Because you wouldn’t want
to be a liar and a fraud?”
She tilted her head up and met his gaze without flinching. “You’re right. I made
this deal, and I have to live with it. But I want you to know that I hate you. I
hate you for not being man enough to set me free.”
He tilted his head an inch to one side, though otherwise he didn’t move a
muscle. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hate me, then.”
She nodded, understanding that there was to be no reprieve. She reached out,
forcing her hands not to tremble, and carefully unbuckled his belt. She felt him
watching her, but she didn’t raise her eyes to his face again.
She unbuttoned the top of his jeans, and as her hands grazed the denim she felt
the heat rising from him. She sensed the swollen bulk of his penis under the
cloth. Instinctively, she cupped it with her palm, as a sudden tactile memory
burned through her.
She had thought this would be strange, after all these years, after all the
anger. But though their hearts had grown apart, grown bitter, their bodies were
still the same. This was still Trent, her Trent. She knew him. She knew what he
felt like, the shape and warmth and musky smell of him.
He pulsed under her hand. He needed this. She remembered how he had always
looked as he first thrust into her, an agony of tension and heat, as if his body
was on fire, and only she could put out the flames. It had thrilled her, but it
had scared her, too, because she sensed a power she couldn’t control.
She slid the zipper down one millimeter at a time, knowing that the pressure was
dragging along the length of him like a slow torture. When it was fully open,
she pulled back the edges of the denim, slid her hand under the cotton boxers,
and took the hard fullness of him into her hand.
He groaned. He throbbed once under her fingers, and she was shocked to realize
that something hot and deep inside her was throbbing, too.
She wanted this. For the first time in her life she desperately wanted to feel
this velvet steel against her teeth, her tongue. Her mouth curved, instinctively
knowing what to do.
She bent her head. But then, out of nowhere, his hands were against her hair.
“What?” His voice was hoarse. “No foreplay?”
She drew a jagged breath. She looked up at him, feeling slightly dazed.
Frustration coursed through her. She was ready. He was ready.
“What do you mean, foreplay?”
He rose to his feet in one graceful motion, his hands urging her up along with
him. Before she could orient herself, he held her buttocks and lifted her onto
the table.
“I mean this,” he said. He slid his hand under her nightshirt and eased off the
panties she wore beneath.
He tossed the bit of silk onto the floor and then returned to her, running his
rough hands up the length of her thighs. Her knees fell apart, as if they were
marionette legs controlled by invisible strings. He went without hesitation to
the aching, moist spot he knew so well, and with perfect confidence began to
stroke, and press and circle.
She grabbed his shoulders, weak and suddenly dizzy. His fingers were hot, and
she was hot, and it felt wonderful and dangerous. It took her breath away.
“Trent,” she said, though the word sounded as if it came out on a choke.
He gazed down at her. She wondered whether she looked as dazed as she felt. He
smiled cryptically, and then he bent his head and kissed her on her lips. The
touch was sweet and lingering, a strange contrast to the hot domination of his
fingers.
“It’s all right, Susannah,” he whispered. “Don’t fight it. Lean back.”
His voice alone controlled her. The cool cork somehow met her back, though her
hips were half on, half off the table, her legs dangling helplessly over the
edge.
But he took her feet, and gently rested her legs across his shoulders. He
carried her, braced her, and she was completely open to him. It felt so right,
strangely safe, and her hips began to move on the table, shifting slightly,
responding to his fingers.
And then, when she could hardly think, it wasn’t his fingers anymore. It was his
mouth, and his tongue and tiny, fiery hints of teeth. And then came dark heat,
and the softest, coaxing pull.
He’d never done this to her, no one had ever done it, but it was perfect, like
watching fireworks from a river, like being the fireworks and being the river,
like pushing and pulling, like coiling and burning, and burning…
And finally the explosion that somehow she knew she had been born for.
When it stopped, she had no idea how long she lay there. She wasn’t sure she’d
ever breathe normally again, or sit up or speak. But somehow, little by little,
her heart subsided to normal, and she felt reality gathering around her.
She sensed movement, and when she opened her eyes, Trent was sorting out her
nightshirt, pulling it down over her thighs. He carefully eased her legs down so
that her feet just barely touched the floor.
With one firm hand behind her shoulder, he nudged her to a sitting position.
And then he began to buckle his belt.
“Trent.” She stared at the belt, unable to meet his eyes. “I thought—”
She felt like a child just learning to speak. Her mouth wouldn’t move quite
right, and words eluded her.
She watched his cool motions as he pulled himself together and headed for the
cellar stairs.
“Good night, Sue.”
He looked so…unmoved. If his lips weren’t slightly swollen, she would think she
had imagined the entire experience.
“Trent…”
He turned. “Yes?”
“That’s all? You’re leaving?”
He tilted his watch. “It’s late. I have to be at the Double C by six.”
Though she wished she could think of something sharp to say, her mind still felt
too scrambled. “But I thought you—I thought you wanted me to—”
“I guess you thought wrong, Susannah.” He smiled, the classic Trent Maxwell
mocking grin. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

FROM THE WINDOW of his office at the Double C the next morning, Trent watched
Alcatraz taking a spin around the paddock.
Trent was supposed to be checking over payroll records, but he’d never been
crazy about the paperwork part of his job. Right now he couldn’t take his eyes
off the potent combination of sunshine, magnificent quarter horse and wide green
pastures.
The scene called to him, making his office feel small and stuffy, his work
pointless.
But who was he kidding? This mood hadn’t come over him because his work was
dull. The Double C had twenty-five thousand acres for him to patrol, a million
issues to deal with—both indoors and out—and a stable of ranch horses to ride
whenever he wanted.
No, this itchy dissatisfaction was all about Susannah.
He tapped his foot against the wooden floor and added a syncopated rhythm with
his pen. He couldn’t stop thinking about last night—and wondering whether he’d
made a serious mistake.
She wouldn’t lightly forgive him for the episode in the cellar. He knew
that—he’d known even before he touched her that he’d pay dearly for it.
Susannah had always been a proud woman, determined to be in control of her life,
her heart…and her body. Even back when they were in the throes of young love,
she’d been self-conscious about the final moment of physical surrender. Today,
when she saw him as the enemy, and sex as the battleground, that complete
meltdown must have felt like a humiliating defeat.
It had begun as a power trip, he had to admit that. He’d wanted to show her that
she wasn’t as indifferent as she pretended to be. He had wanted to force her to
admit that she still felt something for him.
But, in the end, the simple desire to touch her, and taste her, had been
overpowering. He’d needed that more than he’d needed his own release.
Not that the victory had exactly been an ego boost. Making her catch fire had
been about as difficult as setting a match to dry kindling. She’d been ready.
Beyond ready. Any man who had touched that pent-up dynamite would have created a
similar explosion.
Maybe he should have let her finish what she’d started out to do. If she’d been
able to control him, to decide what he’d feel and when, she might have been less
resentful. He certainly would have been less frustrated.
Trent unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back his sleeves, wondering if the air
conditioner might be broken. He had to get out of here.
It wasn’t about the urge to find Susannah and stage a repeat of last night.
It wasn’t. He just needed some air….
Luckily, before he could stand up, the door opened and Chase entered, looking
dusty and tired.
Trent settled back into his chair. Saved by the boss.
“We found Blue Boy,” Chase said without preamble. The two men were such old
friends that they’d long ago dispensed with formalities. Besides, Trent knew all
about the missing horse.
“Where was he?”
“The rascal found a bad piece of fencing out by the west ridge and jumped it.”
“Is he okay?”
Chase dropped onto the comfortable chair opposite the desk and put his feet up
with a sigh. “He twisted his right hind leg. Doc says it’s a tendon, not too
bad, luckily, so he’ll recover. Out of commission for a while, though.”
Trent shook his head. “Wish I thought it would teach Blue a lesson. He’s too old
to go gallivanting.”
Chase chuckled. “No such thing, pal. At least I hope there isn’t.” He yawned
happily and scratched at a grass stain on his shirt. Chase was a true Texas blue
blood, fifth-generation millionaire, but he loved to get dirty, sneaking away
from black tie events to tackle work even his ranch hands hated.
“So. I hear you took a tumble yourself.” Chase lifted his chin, pretending to
try to see over the edge of the desk. “Clumsy bastard. How hard is it to stay
upright on a ladder?”
“Depends on the ladder,” Trent said with a scowl. “Everything she’s got over
there needs fixing. This one was about a hundred years old. The step just gave
out under me.”
“That damn girl’s too proud to live.” Chase dusted the knee of his jeans,
sending a little cloud of gray Double C dirt into the air. “She can’t ask me to
loan her a ladder? She lets her people climb around on a rusted piece of crap?”
“Well…” Trent toyed with his pen. “That’s the weird thing.”
Suddenly, Chase’s yawning, sleepy-eyed manner disappeared. He knew Trent, and he
recognized the tone.
“What weird thing?”
“I’m not sure. At first I just assumed, as you did, that the bolts were rotten.
But I got to thinking, and I’m not so sure. The ladder fell right beside me, and
I was lying there a second or two, staring straight at it.”
“And?”
“I didn’t really put two and two together at the time, being preoccupied with
making sure all my body parts still worked. But now that I think back, I’m
pretty sure I didn’t see any rust.”
Chase frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. You mean the break was clean?”
“Yeah. Straight. As if someone had cut it in two.”
“Did you go back and take a second look at the ladder?”
“It’s gone. Zander said Susannah had told him to get rid of it ASAP, so he got
Eli to shove it into the Dumpster. They already picked it up. They compact it on
the spot, you know. That ladder’s history.”
“That is weird.” Chase was quiet a moment. “Anybody else know you were going up
to cut branches that day?”
Trent tried to remember who might have heard. He’d mentioned it several times
over the past few days. He’d kept meaning to do it, but he kept getting
sidetracked.
“Zander knew. And Eli, I guess. And probably that obnoxious Richard Doyle. He’s
been at the house three mornings in a row, sucking up to Sue, though he says
it’s about the will.”
Chase nodded. “And Sue.”
Trent narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Sue.” Chase shrugged. “I’m just saying, if you think Doyle knew, then Sue must
have told him. So Sue must have known, too.”
Trent decided to ignore that. Chase had played Sherlock Holmes recently, trying
to discover the true identity of Josie’s baby’s father, and his success must
have gone to his head.
He actually thought Sue might have sabotaged her own ladder?
Some detective.
“Obviously she had opportunity, but still, she did marry you only a week ago.”
The corners of Chase’s eyes tilted up. “You’re an irritating son of a gun, but
even you couldn’t have turned her homicidal in a week.”
Trent laughed, glad to see that Chase was just joking. “I don’t know. Guess it
depends on what old man Everly’s will says about widows.”
He glanced out the window again, as the trainer led Alcatraz back to the
stables. What a gorgeous horse he was. He’d been sired by Chase’s father’s
favorite quarter horse, Rampage, a stallion who had definitely lived up to his
name. The only one of the Fugitive Four who had been allowed to ride Rampage had
been Paul, who’d had such a light hand on the reins and whose intuition about
horses had been almost perfect.
“Oh. That reminds me. When I visited Peggy Archer last week, I think I mentioned
to her that I’d be cutting back some branches at Everly. Not that I’m implying…”
He paused, remembering. “It was a strange visit, Chase. Harrison actually took
me outside and warned me about Peggy. Said a lot of bad feelings got stirred up
when Susannah and I got married.”
Chase nodded again. “I can imagine. We’re all married now…something Paul will
never get a chance to do. That’s gotta be tough. Still…it’s kind of hard to
picture Peggy Archer sneaking into Sue’s barn with a hacksaw, don’t you think?”
“Impossible. Till she gets that new hip, Peggy can barely walk from the chair to
the door.”
“So…”
They sat in silence a minute, considering the possibilities—which were, in the
end, all impossible. The bottom line was, no one could have known that Trent
would use that particular ladder on that particular day.
Finally Chase sighed. “Sorry, pal, it’s just too nuts. Nobody’s out to get you.
You must have been imagining things.”
“Possibly. I had just hit my head against an oak root the size of a water main.”
“Clumsy bastard,” Chase repeated affectionately. “Still, women love an injured
warrior. I hope you at least have the sense to milk those stitches for a little
pity sex.”
“Pity sex?” Trent laughed out loud. “For God’s sake, Chase. How desperate do you
think I am?”
“On a scale of one to ten?” Grinning, Chase stood up and headed for the door.
“I’d say about a thousand.”
CHAPTER SIX
NEWLYWEDS, Trent decided as he watched Chase and Josie try to assemble the new
crib, were disgusting. They should be locked up for the first full calendar
year, so they didn’t drive everyone else crazy with their cuddles and kisses and
lingering looks of hungry adoration.
Of course, technically Trent and Susannah were newlyweds, too. But that was
different. Night and day different.
It was a bright Sunday afternoon, the last weekend in May, and the two couples
had been working on the nursery at the Double C for the past two hours. Well, at
least Trent and Susannah had been working. Chase and Josie got very little done,
seemingly magnetized to one another. Chase couldn’t pass within six feet of his
new wife without scooping her into his arms for a cuddle. Josie couldn’t hand
him the screwdriver without ending up kissing his neck.
Susannah and Trent, on the other hand, seemed to exist in two separate
universes, even when they were standing mere inches apart. In the past two
hours, Susannah had met Trent’s eyes only once, the moment he arrived. Her shock
had been almost palpable. She obviously hadn’t realized, when she agreed to help
Josie today, that it would be a double date.
Trent had glanced at Chase. Good try, pal, he’d messaged silently. Chase had
shrugged, his smile not admitting anything.
Though Susannah was clearly unhappy about the arrangement, she couldn’t be
accused of being rude. She worked hard. She laughed at Chase’s jokes, and oohed
over Josie’s fluffy lamb mobiles and lamb border stencils and lamb-patterned
sheets.
It was only Trent who got the invisible man treatment. She talked around him,
walked around him, worked around him without skipping a beat.
“Hey, guys. Would you mind working on the stencil border while we assemble the
mobile?” Chase wrapped one arm around Josie’s waist. “I don’t want Josie in here
with the paint fumes. Not good for the baby.”
Trent gazed over at Susannah, who frowned. He wondered how she was going to get
out of this one.
“Do you really think that needs to be done today?” She smiled to soften the
words. “The baby’s not due till mid-September, and it’s not even June yet.”
Trent felt her frustration. Back at Everly, peaches were ripening on the trees
in record numbers. She’d spent every day of the past month trying to line up
buyers. Tomorrow the harvest would begin, with its harrowing fourteen-hour days.
Susannah wouldn’t have another free Sunday until late August.
Josie grinned, unabashed. “I know. But I just can’t wait to see it. I’m so
grateful that you guys are willing to help. It means so much to both of us.”
Trent glanced at Chase, who beamed and planted a kiss on the top of her head, as
if she’d said something marvelous.
Man, the guy was gone on his wife. He clearly didn’t know how to deny her
anything. If she’d wanted the baby’s room decorated in angel feathers and bits
of the pearly gates, Chase would have driven his truck up to Heaven’s door and
demanded they sell him some.
“Okay, then, we’ll be in the study if you need us.” Chase apparently had decided
to take Susannah’s silence as a yes. That was absurd, of course. Chase had been
Susannah’s best friend since they were babies, and he knew as well as Trent what
her frozen face really meant. “Have fun.”
They ambled off, still entwined, still teasing each other, still making silly
kissing noises between sentences. When they finally disappeared, Trent turned to
Susannah with a smile.
“Wow. You could get cavities, just being in the same room with all that sugar.”
She didn’t smile back. “I think it’s sweet.”
“My point exactly. Sweet like six banana splits and a double hot fudge sundae.
Stomachache sweet.”
She studied the stencil. “They’re happy. That’s what marriage is all about. Most
marriages, anyhow.” She turned and held the stencil up against the wall,
studying it. “I think it’s great.”
Well, of course she did. Whatever Trent thought, she thought the opposite. If he
said go, she’d stop. If he said silence she’d sing.
If he said, Come here, Sue, because I want to make love to you until you forget
how to be such a bitch…
She’d run.
And, obviously, neither of them would ever forget that this should have been
their own sugary bliss. The look in Susannah’s eyes said it all. If Trent hadn’t
cheated on her, they would have been the kissing, cooing newlyweds.
She had wanted that, once. Trent knew it had been her most comforting dream. It
had helped her endure the loss of her parents, and her grandfather’s brutality.
And he’d killed it.
She would never forgive him for that. Hell, he’d never forgive himself.
But life went on, damn it. Why couldn’t she let go of the past long enough to
get through this year without adding more misery to the heaping load they
already carried around?
“So let’s see how this works.” He plucked the stencil from her fingers. “Ummm…”
He turned it in all directions, trying to figure out how exactly this collection
of random slits in a wobbly plastic rectangle was going to end up looking like
anything. “Sorry, but…what the hell?”
In spite of her obvious belief that cracking a smile in his presence would usher
in the end of the world, he saw the corner of her mouth tuck back.
“It’s a simple stencil, really. Just one color, just one layer. See? You press
the stencil against the wall, then sponge over it with paint. What comes through
will look like a lamb.”
“Really.” He squinted. It would, he thought, probably help to be drunk. “I’ll
have to take your word for it.”
But she didn’t seem to be listening anymore. When he glanced toward her, he was
rewarded with a close-up of her tight, round ass. She’d bent over and begun
squeezing blobs of white acrylic paint onto the plates that waited on the bright
blue drop cloth.
He took a minute to enjoy the sight. Expecting to work hard—and definitely not
expecting to see Trent—she’d dressed casually today. Instead of her regular
tailored khaki slacks and oxford cloth shirt, she was wearing cutoff blue jeans,
frayed up to the danger zone, and a tiny white halter top.
Eleven years ago, he would have grabbed her in both hands and pulled her in for
an X-rated squeeze that would have put Chase and Josie to shame. They would have
ended up laughing, stumbling and probably covered in white paint.
Today, they lived under new laws. He gave himself that one stolen minute to
look, and then turned away before she sensed the heat of his gaze.
“The border goes along the edge of the ceiling, I suppose?” There were still two
ladders in the room, from when Trent and Chase had painted the baby-blue walls
two weeks ago, and they’d obviously been left for a reason.
She stood on tiptoe to investigate. “Yeah. Chase already drew the guidelines, so
we don’t have to worry about spacing. You can start over by the closet. I’ll
start by the door.”
Her gaze dropped to his calf, which still had a bandage over Marchant’s six
stitches. “Unless…” She waved toward the injury. “If you’d rather not…”
He laughed. “You think I’ve developed a fear of ladders?”
“Probably not.” She actually smiled at that.
For about twenty minutes they worked in silence, atop their own perches on
opposite sides of the room. He taped the stencil in place, sponged the paint
onto the wall, then moved the stencil and began again.
The lambs looked blobby…. Was he using too much paint? His hands felt too big,
mostly thumbs. Though he’d done only five lambs, he was already bored.
He glanced back to see how her wall was coming.
Far better than his, naturally. She had so much more control, so much more
patience. He was restless, physical, more comfortable outdoors. He’d always
marveled at her ability to sit quietly, to wait, to think things through, to
stay on task.
He had none of that. Which was, of course, why he’d botched up his life for so
long, making one impulsive mistake after another. What patience he had acquired
had come at great cost…and it still didn’t come naturally.
He climbed down, moved his ladder and filled his plate with white paint. He
climbed up again, ignoring the twinge in his stitches, and taped the stencil in
place. Just before he touched the sponge to the wall, he noticed that he’d taped
the lamb upside down.
In spite of his annoyance, he had to laugh. Josie was going to regret letting
him get involved with this. “Hey. Remember when Nikki decided she wanted
unicorns all over her walls?”
He wasn’t surprised when Susannah didn’t immediately answer. Normally, they
avoided “Remember when” as a conversation starter. But he’d spoken without
thinking, of course. And besides, damn it, he was tired of pretending that ten
years of intimacy and fun hadn’t existed, just because they’d ended in one night
of disaster.
She must have decided the same thing, because after only a brief hesitation, she
chuckled, too.
“I hope that doesn’t mean what I think it means.” She put down her sponge and
twisted her head to see his border. “Have you screwed up already?”
“Yeah. I almost put one on upside down.” He leaned back to let her get a full
view of the mess. “Is the paint supposed to drip like that? My lambs look sort
of…deformed.”
She frowned, studying his line of white, puffy animals. “It’s not too bad,” she
said finally. “You’re using too much paint, that’s all. I can probably go back
with the blue and touch it up.”
“Oh.” He stared at his row of lambs, as if they’d betrayed him. “Darn.”
“Darn? You wanted me to say they were awful?”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “I was hoping you’d order me to surrender my sponge
immediately.”
“Nope.” She dabbed her own sponge into the white paint. “Sorry. And don’t go
making it worse deliberately, just to get out of it. It didn’t work with the
unicorns, did it?”
It certainly hadn’t. At five, Nikki had been in love with unicorns, and she’d
begged Susannah, Trent, Paul and Chase—who, at nineteen, still called themselves
the Fugitive Four—to paint the creatures on her bedroom walls.
Ever sensible, Susannah found a picture to copy, but unfortunately none of the
boys had an iota of artistic talent. Trent’s contributions were the worst,
looking like everything from rhinos to car keys…but never like unicorns.
Nikki, who at the time was crazy about Trent, adored the weird creations. She
egged him on, encouraging him to make them ever wilder, despite Susannah’s
frustrated efforts to keep everyone copying the pattern.
Chase and Paul joined in the fun, abandoning the original design without regret.
It took a while, but by the end of the day even Sue relented and began adding
inventive flourishes to her unicorns, too.
The result was colorful madness, but it had been so joyous, a visible
representation of the love and creative camaraderie that had existed among the
four friends. It had been one of their happiest days.
They’d all been crushed when, two days later, Arlington Everly had sent one of
the ranch hands up to paint over it with a bland eggshell white. It had taken
four coats to cover it all, which had given them an irrational sense of pride.
“Okay, but if my lambs all look like unicorns, let it be on your head.” He
tapped the sponge against the edge of the plate, making sure it didn’t soak up
too much paint. “That was a fun day, wasn’t it?”
He didn’t look at Susannah, but he could feel her tension all the way across the
room. He could almost hear her thoughts. She was trying to calculate risk,
vulnerability, exposure. Was it too dangerous to agree that yes, she, too,
remembered that day with pleasure? Was she somehow in danger if she admitted
that, on that one day, they had been happy?
“Yes,” she said finally. “Yes, it was a beautiful day.”
He waited, wondering whether she’d find a way to erase the tenderness with an
extra comment. A great day, and isn’t it too bad that you had to go and spoil it
all? A great day, but only because we didn’t know how soon Paul would be dead.
She didn’t. The gentle sound of her “yes” hung in the air, untouched. When he
looked up, she had already gone back to swabbing the stencil with her sponge.
It wasn’t much. But somehow it felt like a victory.
Suddenly Josie came into the room, holding Trent’s cell phone in one
outstretched hand. She crossed the room quickly and stopped at the foot of his
ladder.
“It must have fallen off when you and Chase were assembling the bookcase,” she
said. “It was ringing, so I answered it for you. It’s Missy Snowdon? She said it
was urgent.”
Chase appeared in the doorway, holding the fuzzy pieces of the mobile he’d
obviously been putting together. The look on his face was priceless. Josie’s
hand wavered, as if she realized she’d goofed, though she wasn’t sure how.
Trent had to enjoy the irony. Though Chase must have told Josie at least some
details of Trent and Susannah’s problems, apparently he had withheld the piece
about Trent sleeping with Missy Snowdon. To protect Trent’s reputation, no
doubt.
What a joke. Once again, fate proved that hiding the truth didn’t work. Secrets
simply wouldn’t stay buried.
He took the telephone, because, in the end, what else could he do?
He glanced once at Susannah.
He shouldn’t have.
“Hello, Missy,” he said in an even tone. “Is everything all right?”
“Not really,” her arch, sexy voice responded. “My old friend Maxy isn’t
answering my calls or returning my messages. Here I am, between love affairs and
between cocktails, just looking to get together with an old friend, and he won’t
give me the time of day. I can’t figure out why that would be. Can you?”
“It’s pretty simple.” Trent watched Susannah’s face, which had hardened into a
sardonic indifference that he was pretty sure he recognized. Had she learned
that look from him? “I don’t know if you heard. I just got married.”
“Oh, I heard. Everyone’s talking about it. But it’s not that kind of marriage,
is it? Word on the street is that she still hates your guts. Sounds like you
need a little TLC just as much as I do. And by TLC I mean, touching, licking—”
“Missy.” God almighty. She was drunk, and it was only, what…about three in the
afternoon? Poor, beautiful Missy Snowdon. He could have predicted she’d find the
real world to be so much harder than high school.
Pity softened his voice. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to help you
with that. But it was nice of you to call.”
Susannah made a low, disgusted noise. She dropped her sponge in the paint, wiped
her hands on her shorts, and began backing down the ladder.
“Come on, Maxy,” Missy wheedled. “I hear she won’t sleep with you, even though
she promised she would. And I know you. You can’t go a year—”
“I’m sorry, but I’m just not available right now. It was good to talk to you.
Take care of yourself.”
He flipped the phone shut, though she kept talking. He wondered if, when she
realized he was gone, she’d call right back. Just in case, he turned the phone
to silent mode.
He looked at Susannah, who was watching him, as rigid as an ice mannequin. She
smiled slightly, as if she found his predicament amusing, but the frost in her
eyes said something different.
Without warning, anger bubbled up, like a geyser that had been dormant so long
he’d almost forgotten it was there.
Was it his fault Missy Snowdon needed a man and had decided to become Trent’s
own personal stalker? He hadn’t touched the redhead in almost eleven years, for
God’s sake. Was there no such thing as forgiveness? No Get Out of Jail card in
the game of Susannah Everly’s life?
He was a bloody fool. Why was he trying to make this goddamn marriage work? She
wasn’t ever going to forgive him. She wasn’t ever going to forget. Maybe, over
the years, she’d lost whatever sweetness and humanity she’d once possessed.
And if she had nothing to offer him but ice and hatred, why the hell shouldn’t
he take what Missy Snowdon had to offer? He was tired of guilt, tired of
loneliness, tired of wearing sackcloth and ashes while he beat his fists against
Susannah’s locked door.
Missy might be a drunk, but at least she wasn’t a walking textbook of
resentment, repression and every emotional issue known to man.
And she got pleasure from making a man feel good, not out of making him feel
like shit.
He glanced at the phone, thinking how good it would feel to thumb it open and
hit Redial, right here, while Susannah watched with that supercilious look on
her face. That “I know you’re a bastard” look, which, paradoxically, just made
him want to prove her right.
“Trent.” Chase’s voice cut into his thoughts. “Pal. Think it through.”
Trent glanced up. Chase looked worried, but steady. No pressure, which he knew
from long experience wouldn’t work with Trent at a moment like this. Just a
reminder that sanity was still an option.
It was a look that had stopped Trent from doing a lot of dumb things through the
years.
Trent took a breath. Then he slowly slid the cell phone into his back pocket.
He glanced toward Susannah, wondering if she knew how close he’d come.
But she had already left the room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SOMETIMES, life just didn’t seem fair.
The next day, in the silver-pink early-morning sunlight, Susannah stood at the
edge of her two-acre rows of Rio Grande trees, the first of her peaches to
ripen.
She tried not to feel bitter about the rotten trick fate had played on her.
For the first year she could remember, Everly’s orchards had been blessed with
perfect conditions. No frost, no drought, no catfacing, no scab. As a result,
thousands of juicy peaches hung from the trees like Christmas ornaments, glowing
gold with deep red blush, throwing off waves of mouthwatering sweetness.
But unless she could pull off a miracle, much of this beautiful fruit would rot,
unsold, in cold storage. Because this year, this perfect year, was also the year
her biggest buyer had gone bankrupt. The other retail outlets were already
contracted with other growers.
Except for a few little mom-and-pop stores, and a bunch of roadside stands, she
had nowhere to sell her crop.
Zander came up beside her, panting, his bulky form already sweating, though a
chill still hung in the air. It was that kind of morning, when no one moved
slowly. Every morning for the next three months would be like that.
“Snap out of it,” he said, handing her one of the drop-bottom bags. “Feeling
sorry for yourself isn’t going to get the peaches picked.”
“I know. But look at those trees. They’re all going to look like that this year,
from the Rios to the Dixielands. All five hundred acres, all twenty-five
varieties. What are we going to do if a new bulk buyer doesn’t show up in the
next few weeks?”
He shook his head. “Beats me. Right now all I care about is getting this fruit
off the trees. You going to help me or not?”
She smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Adjusting her hat and squaring her shoulders, she scanned the workers, who were
pouring out of the makeshift office, where they’d been issued their gear. Male
and female, old and young, they began to filter into the rows of dawn-lit trees,
ladders and bushel baskets in hand, laughing and talking.
By the time the sun hit the treetops, Susannah knew, only the superfit would
still be laughing. The rest would be sweating and silent, aching from shoulder
to toe.
Most of her workers each season were regulars, college students and teachers on
summer vacation, as well as whole families of migrants who knew the rhythms of
nature so well they magically appeared the day she needed them.
But this year she’d hired at least thirty extra pickers to cope with the bumper
crop. Many of them were newbies and would need a lot of supervision, just to be
sure they didn’t manhandle the fruit or pack it so deep she ended up with box
after box of peach mush.
Where the peaches would go after they’d been picked and packed, Susannah had no
idea. She was still making calls, exploring options, searching her brain for new
ideas, but mostly she was just praying for a miracle. She even dreamed once that
a new grocery chain began building a store downtown. In her dream, she’d grabbed
a hammer and nails and joyously leaped on a scaffold to help.
She watched the workers, eager to begin, none of them wondering where it would
end. “Do you think maybe we could add another couple of roadside stands?”
“We’ve already doubled what we had last year.” Zander tucked his thumbs into his
belt loops and sighed. “I did as you said and got Eli supervising the deliveries
to the roadside stands. Trent offered to oversee the pick-your-own acres.”
Susannah shot him a hard look. “Shouldn’t Trent be at the Double C?”
Zander shrugged. “He said he could spare the time.”
“Still, he doesn’t know anything about peaches—”
“Ms. Susannah, follow my logic. He offered. We need him. I said yes.”
Her chest tightened. Though Zander was right, she was reluctant to take any
favors from Trent. She didn’t want to owe him any more than she already did.
Plus, just knowing he was around would be distracting. They hadn’t spoken since
yesterday afternoon, when Missy had called him at the Double C. He had come
straight home after finishing up in the nursery. It had been a difficult day,
just spending so many hours around Chase and Josie. Susannah was happy for them,
really she was. But their uninhibited joy made her think about things that were
better left forgotten.
Things like how, once upon a time, she’d truly believed that she and Trent would
be sharing such newlywed bliss. Laughing and kissing, and touching at every
opportunity.
Even…someday…decorating a nursery of their own.
The dream had exploded eleven years ago. She’d swept it into the corners of her
mind. It shocked her yesterday to find that the broken shards still retained the
power to slash and tear her heart.
By the time he came home that night, she was already in bed.
Like a fool, she lay awake for hours, thinking he might come up to talk to her,
to try to explain Missy’s call. Or, perhaps, to insist on another…whatever you
could call that episode in the cellar.
Sometime during the long hours of last night, waiting for the knock that never
came, she had a disturbing revelation. He didn’t need to come to her again
because, for him, the cellar encounter hadn’t been about sex. It hadn’t been
about passion, or desire, or even leftover yearning from the old days.
It had been about power. She thought about how he had prevented her from
touching him. Of course. It made sense now. He hadn’t needed any sexual release.
All he had needed was to demonstrate that he was in control. That she was a
puppet, and he held the strings.
So no. She didn’t want him around all day, didn’t want him pitching in, as if he
was just another one of her friends. She was comfortable with her anger, and she
intended to hang on to it. This ricocheting around between emotions—fury,
desire, hope and back to fury—was exhausting.
Zander hitched his jeans, clearly irritated by her silence. “What’s the problem?
We haven’t hired anyone to run those acres yet. If Trent takes over, we can open
them today.”
Practicality warred with emotion. She couldn’t deny it would be a help.
Other growers made lots of money with pick-your-own acres, but Everly had never
offered the feature before. Her grandfather had thought it would cheapen the
orchard’s name.
Susannah couldn’t see how it could cheapen their name any more than covering
half the county in the stink of Everly peaches rotting on the pallets. So she’d
decided to try it with a few acres of Gold Prince, one of the few early-ripening
semiclings that actually sold well for anything other than canning.
“All right.” She tried not to sound ungracious. Zander was doing everything he
could to help unload the peaches. At least the pick-your-own acres were on the
other side of the property. “Do you think his stitches are healed enough? He’ll
be up and down ladders all day, helping people.”
Zander snorted. “He’s fine.”
“Did you check the new ladders?”
Immediately after Trent’s fall, she’d replaced all the old ones on the
property—about half of everything they owned. The expense of the new ones
pinched, but she couldn’t risk letting someone else get hurt. Trent might laugh
off stitches in his usual macho way, but the next tumble might leave someone
truly injured.
“Checked ’em all. Old and new. They’re as safe as aces.” Zander shook his head.
“I don’t know what the heck happened to Trent’s ladder. I had used that same one
just the day before to get to the garage shingles. I didn’t break the step, and
I’m about fifty pounds heavier than Trent.”
“I know. It seems so strange that—”
“Why look!” Zander gestured broadly. “Isn’t that your husband over there?”
She looked, and sure enough, Trent was standing by the barn. He leaned against
one of the first peach trees, his long torso and narrow hips looking
ridiculously sexy, considering he was wearing just jeans and a T-shirt.
He was talking on a cell phone. To Missy Snowdon, no doubt.
She turned to Zander. “I’m sure he’s here to talk to you. I’ll start briefing
the workers.”
“No. I’ll handle them,” Zander said flatly. “You go talk to Trent.”
It wasn’t something she liked to do, but occasionally Susannah had to remind
Zander exactly what was—and wasn’t—listed on his job description. Nowhere, she
was quite sure, did it include the words “marriage counselor” or “matchmaker.”
“Zander.”
Her foreman blinked innocently, and she realized just in time that one of the
new workers was watching. She sweetened her voice, remembering that a rumor
could race through this orchard faster than San Jose scale. “You decided how the
pick-your-own acres should be handled, Zander. I expect you to deal with it.”
Zander tilted his hat, obviously recognizing the tone that brooked no
opposition. She knew that under the wide, shading brim, his eyes would be
narrowed in frustration.
Too bad. As he took off, lumbering across the orchard, she looked at Trent,
wondering why he’d come. Did he really want to help? Maybe so. She should go
over there and thank him for it. After all, the whole purpose of their marriage
was to save this peach orchard.
God knows, it wasn’t a “real” marriage, for the purpose of love and
togetherness. Nothing had brought that home to her more than being together
yesterday at Chase’s ranch. Two sets of newlyweds, and yet what a difference! It
had been all she could do to fight off the bitter pangs of envy she’d felt
toward Josie.
That could have been Susannah. It should have been.
Except the man Susannah had been fool enough to want to marry hadn’t ever
learned the meaning of the word faithful.
Only thirty yards away, Trent chatted easily into the phone, his gaze directly
on Susannah, watching her watch him. He didn’t seem a bit self-conscious. But
then, nothing bothered Trent, did it? He was always so stylishly nonchalant,
with his devil-black hair and angel-blue eyes. Susannah could already see
several of her female friends staring at him—rich, manicured women who were here
only to support a friend in need…and, perhaps, to ogle the friend’s handsome new
husband.
Trent didn’t appear to notice them. Without once dropping his gaze from
Susannah’s, he flipped the cell phone shut and, slipping it into the back pocket
of his sinfully sexy jeans, he tossed her a slow wink.
Something deep in her belly pumped heat. As he undoubtedly knew it would.
Bastard, she thought. She turned away. No one needed to worry about Trent’s leg.
No doubt Missy Snowdon—or whoever had been on the other end of that cell
phone—couldn’t wait to get her hands on it.
And on the rest of Susannah’s husband, too.

BECAUSE TRENT KNEW that Susannah hadn’t advertised the pick-your-own acres yet,
he had expected to spend a relatively dull morning. He’d even brought his
laptop. He thought he might design some flyers to distribute around town, e-mail
an ad to the local paper, maybe even update the Everly Web site, all in hopes of
drumming up business for the rest of the week.
But apparently he’d underestimated the reputation Everly peaches carried in this
town. Word must have spread like chickweed, because by 9:00 a.m. at least a
dozen people had arrived, eager to hand him money for the right to pluck their
own tree-ripe fruit.
Once the lines of cars were visible from the road, they attracted more people,
like honeysuckle drawing hummingbirds. At ten, Trent called the Double C and
asked Chase if he had any workers to spare.
It was easy to distinguish the locals, who knew how to pick and had brought
their own plastic dishpans, water bottles, sunscreen and well-worn sneakers,
from the tourists, who arrived overdressed and eager, bringing nothing but cash
and a ton of questions.
“How can I tell if it’s ripe?” “What are those little dented places?” “If I want
to make ice cream, how many peaches do I need?”
Luckily, Trent remembered the answers. He’d worked alongside Susannah in these
orchards every summer from the time they were fourteen, when they were deemed
old enough to be useful, right up until Paul died.
Peaches, in fact, had been his entrée into her world. Science teachers like
Trent’s dad didn’t make a lot of money, so when Everly Orchards had advertised
for summer workers, Alan Maxwell had applied. On his dad’s first day,
nine-year-old Trent had ridden his bike over to Everly to bring him lunch. On
the way back he passed Susannah, who had been given the chore of minding one of
the smaller roadside stands.
“You’re standing right next to poison ivy, you know,” he’d said, pausing beside
the stand, his feet planted wide to balance his bike. Why he’d thought that
would be an effective opening line was a mystery to him now. “That plant with
the greenish flowers. That’s climbing poison ivy.”
She had stared down. “It doesn’t look like it. It looks like strawberries.”
He cringed to remember how he’d launched into a know-it-all lecture about the
different kinds of poison ivy, its effects on humans and animals, and
characteristics of urushiols. He must have sounded like a head case, but she’d
actually looked interested.
And then, out of nowhere, in a defensive rush, he had blurted out that his dad
was one of her dad’s summer pickers.
He’d fully expected her pretty little nose to twitch with an heiress’s
instinctive disdain for the working class. But she had surprised him by sighing
enviously. “My dad won’t let me do that yet,” she’d said. “Not till I’m
fourteen.”
He’d rested his bike against the wooden wall of the rough-hewn stand and bought
a peach with his last dime, just so that he wouldn’t have to leave. And then he
got lucky. A couple of snotty jerks from Blanco Falls, one of the biggest
ranches in the county, had come sauntering by and, purely for the fun of
tormenting a pretty girl, had stolen a handful of peaches.
Later, Trent couldn’t really remember why he’d done it—whether it was to impress
her, or merely because the injustice offended his idealistic young psyche—but he
took off after them and demanded they give the peaches back.
They’d refused. One of them had punched Trent in the shoulder, and the other
called Susannah a dirty word. Before he knew it, Trent had the bigger, meaner
boy on the ground and was opening a stream of blood from the kid’s nose.
The peaches had been ruined, of course, and the boys had told their parents,
who’d called Trent’s father, and Trent had been grounded for a month. But every
day of that month, Susannah had ridden her bike the three miles from Everly to
the Maxwell shotgun cottage on the edge of town and left him a fresh peach on
the front porch.
When they’d started school in the fall, without a word of explanation, Susannah
had sat beside him at lunch. For an awkward ten minutes, no one had joined them.
And then Chase Clayton and Paul Archer, two of the richest kids in the school,
had dumped their trays on the table.
“The Blanco boys suck,” Chase had said, sitting down with a smile. From that
moment on, miraculously, Trent had been one of them.
He took a deep breath now, inhaling the scent of sweet peaches, which, he knew,
would always remind him of Susannah. Then he put the memories back in the
closet. He was here to help her save these orchards, and he’d better get busy
doing it.
Over in the second row of trees, an hourglass-shaped trophy wife with a diamond
ring the size of a peach pit stood on a ladder, yanking off fruit and dropping
it into her basket. Making every mistake in the book.
When she got home and unpacked a bushel of bruised peaches, naturally she’d
blame the orchard, not herself. And goodbye great reputation.
Trent made his way over to her ladder. Her perfume overpowered the smell of the
peaches, which wasn’t easy to do.
“Hey,” he called casually. “Remember, you want to try to use the sides of your
fingers. Not the tips.”
The woman looked down at him, scanning his body from forehead to toe. When her
gaze came back up, she smiled. He knew that smile well, the one that said she
was either divorced or wished she were.
“Really? Why is that?”
“A peach bruises easily. With the tips of your fingers, it’s easy to exert too
much pressure.”
“Sounds tricky.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and smiled even more
deeply. “I’m Becky. Why don’t you come up and show me?”
She was gorgeous, he had to admit that. And he knew exactly how seductive he
could make these peaches sound. How the tender, velvety-furred flesh required
just the right touch. How the soft fruit inside, still warm from the sun, would
release juices that would run down your chin.
How enduring a dry spell sometimes intensified their sweetness. How the peach
separated easily from the tree when it was ripe enough, and practically fell
into your hands.
As he’d realized more than once, he was no saint. He actually gave it a half
second’s thought. He knew a ripe woman as well as he knew a ripe peach, and this
one would be easy to harvest. And, frankly, this celibacy thing was getting a
bit rough.
But he had about a hundred powerful reasons to say no—a list that started with
the diamond ring on Becky’s finger and ended with the one on Susannah’s.
“It’s no big deal,” he said, pretending he hadn’t noticed the come-on. “You’ll
get the hang of it. Place the peaches gently in your basket, and try not to heap
them more than about fourteen inches deep. The fruit on the bottom can’t take
the pressure.”
Becky looked surprised, as if her invitations weren’t often refused. “Okay,” she
said. “But are you sure—”
“Maxwell!”
Trent turned in the direction of the voice, glad of any excuse to move away from
the woman’s predatory gaze. But his relief was short-lived. The man marching
across the orchard was Richard Doyle, old man Everly’s lawyer. He wore a suit,
so he wasn’t here for a peach fix.
“Excuse me,” Trent said to the woman on the ladder. “Business.”
He reached Doyle just as the lawyer cleared the checkout table, where Richie,
one of the younger ranch hands from the Double C, was busy selling water, snacks
and picking containers next to the woman from Everly who was weighing and
packaging the peaches.
Doyle stopped. “I need to talk to you, Maxwell.”
Trent didn’t know the man all that well, but he assumed that the gruff,
bass-note tone wasn’t his natural voice. And surely the lawyer didn’t walk
around with that X-shaped groove between his eyebrows. He was obviously in a
major snit.
“Okay.” Trent shrugged. “Here I am. Talk.”
The lawyer cast a dark glance toward the table. “I think you might prefer to
have this conversation in private.”
Damn, this guy had pompous down pat. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five, but
he acted sixty. Trent tilted his head and smiled, mostly because he knew it
would infuriate the other man.
“Quite honestly, I’d rather not have this conversation at all.” He raised one
eyebrow. “But I’m guessing that’s not an option?”
Doyle’s jaw tightened. “You’re damn right it’s not.”
“Okay, then. As I said, I’m here. But I won’t be forever. Talk.”
“Have it your way.” Doyle took a breath and hitched his slacks. “I came because
Susannah wanted me to give you some papers. But first I’d like to give you a
chance to explain yourself.”
Trent chuckled. “Explain myself? I’m afraid that might take more time than I’ve
got. And maybe a couple of psychiatrists.”
“For God’s sake, Maxwell.” Doyle’s shoulders stiffened. “I have some pretty
damaging information here. Do you insist on turning everything into a joke?”
“On the contrary. I’m constantly in search of something I can take seriously.”
Trent glanced at the orchard, where another family had arrived, this one with
two young boys who would probably destroy everything they touched. “How about if
we get to the point? What is this information you think you have?”
“Not think. Know.” Doyle grimaced. “I’ve had someone looking into what you were
doing during the years you were gone. And I found out some mighty disturbing
information about one Virginia Windsor Smith.”
“Ginny is hardly a secret,” Trent said. “She’s a fairly prominent almond grower
out in California.”
“She’s more than that. She’s a beautiful, rich woman. A very innocent, trusting
sort of woman. And she’s your ex-wife.”
“Also not a secret. If you’re thinking this will shock Susannah, think again.
She knows I’ve been married before, and she doesn’t care. She probably
appreciates that someone else saddle broke me for her.”
That might have been a step too far. But Trent’s temper was rising, which always
made him more sarcastic. Why the hell had this bastard been out in California
harassing Ginny?
“I hope your detective didn’t charge you much,” he added pleasantly. “Sounds as
if he missed the other six ex-wives, the ones I keep locked up in the basement.”
“Maybe. But he didn’t miss the five hundred acres of prime California
agricultural land you weasled out of her.”
Trent raised his eyebrows. “Ginny is one of the most successful almond farmers
in California. I’d like to meet the man who could weasel anything out of her.”
Doyle put his hands in his pockets, as if he was afraid he might succumb to the
urge to punch Trent in the face.
Trent was working through a similar impulse. Everything about this man irritated
him. Doyle was probably considered good-looking by most female standards, with
his chiseled features and spiky, modish blond hair, but Trent thought he looked
like a bird still wet from the egg.
“You signed a prenup with Virginia Windsor Smith, just like you did with
Susannah.” Doyle tightened his eyes. “I’m looking for proof, and when I get it
I’m going to take it to Susannah. I wonder if she will think it’s so funny when
she hears you somehow made your ex-wife pay you to go away.”
“You know, for a lawyer, that’s pretty sloppy logic.” Trent smiled. “Look it up.
I’m pretty sure you’ll find that correlation does not imply causation.”
“You smug son of a—” Doyle stopped himself, but the skin around his nostrils was
pure white. “I’m not just a lawyer, Maxwell. I’m also a rancher’s son, and we
learn early around here that if your boots stink, you’ve stepped in shit. And
everything you touch ends up stinking. That’s all the logic I need to know.”
“Charmingly folksy,” Trent said. “But you said you had some papers for me?”
With stiff movements. the lawyer reached into his inside breast pocket and
pulled out an envelope. “I want to go on record with you, as I did with
Susannah, as objecting to this proposal. I think it’s the worst possible
reaction to whatever emotional blackmail you’re trying. It’s beneath her.”
“May I see?”
Doyle thrust out the envelope, as if he had to force himself to relinquish it.
Trent opened it and scanned it quickly. The legalese was dense and idiotic, but
it was essentially the deal Susannah had offered him the other day. If he didn’t
run around having sex with his millions of trashy girlfriends during the year he
was married to St. Susannah, she’d pay him $120,000.
Ten grand for every month of celibacy, just as she’d suggested. She must really
think Trent had trouble keeping his pants on. He wondered whether it was Missy
Snowdon’s call the other day that had prompted her to make the offer official.
Or perhaps she just enjoyed insulting him.
“Interesting,” he said, keeping his face relaxed, though he felt his temper
teetering dangerously on the edge of explosion. “Doesn’t work out to be much,
figured as an hourly wage. But I’ll have my lawyer look at it and get back to
you.”
Doyle narrowed his eyes. “Would you really consider signing such a demeaning
document? Would you really take that money from her?”
Trent laughed as he slid the envelope into his back pocket. “Who knows? It’s not
exactly five hundred acres of prime California agricultural land, but it’s a
nice chunk of change.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
EVERY JUNE 5, Susannah sneaked away from the bustle of peach picking and made a
solitary trek to Green Fern Pool. There, cool and hidden from the rest of the
world, she could whisper happy birthday to Paul Archer in the place he had loved
the best.
This year, getting away had been more difficult than ever. It was almost 6 p.m.
before she ducked under the arch created by the low branches of two black gum
trees, which the Fugitive Four had dubbed “Heaven’s Gate,” and entered their
secret hideaway.
Groaning softly, her arms already aching after only a few days of picking, she
lowered herself onto the flat rock they had called the boat launch and gazed out
onto the swimming hole.
Sometimes it was crystal blue and green, alive with sunshine, clear enough to
see the rainbow-colored rocks scattered across the sandy bottom.
But not today. All afternoon, the sky had been darkening, gathering rain, and
the murky water undulated under invisible gusts of the impending storm. Behind
the pale oval reflection of Susannah’s face, looming silhouettes of ancient
trees shifted ominously.
God, she was tired. The boat launch rock was wide and flat, and she wished she
could just lie down on it and take a nap. She’d slept here a hundred times,
curled up on this rock with Trent’s arms wrapped around her, listening dreamily
to the splash and laughter of Paul and Chase doing cannonballs off the limestone
walls.
But today’s birthday memorial would have to be short. No time for naps or
sentimental reminiscing. No time even to let her aching shoulders relax.
She dug in her pocket for the pebble she’d brought with her. She warmed it
inside her palm, blew to transform it into a wishing stone, then tossed it out
into the center of the pool.
Chase had started this tradition, and through the years they’d come here to wish
for all the dumb stuff typical teenagers desired. For cool cars and hot clothes,
for Chase to get good SAT scores and for Paul to pitch a no-hitter. For easy
Spanish tests, and no zits on prom night.
And then there had been the day—they’d been seventeen that summer—when Trent had
stood on the edge of the rock and grinned evilly at Susannah. “Next time we have
a pool party, I wish Missy Snowdon’s breasts would bust right out of her
bikini,” he’d cried to the water gods.
Susannah, who thought he was just being an idiot, had pushed him into the pool,
jeans and sneakers and all. And everyone had laughed.
“Happy birthday, Paul,” she whispered as the pebble sank. And then, as she did
every year, she added, “I wish you were here.”
It was inevitable, at this moment, that she would live it all again.
It had been stupid from the start, the kind of immature scheme only a spoiled,
heartbroken teenager could devise.
The five of them, the Fugitive Four and Chase’s new, obnoxious wife—had plans to
go drinking at a hokey little hoedown bar on the outskirts of Eastcreek that
night.
Two nights after she had watched Trent and Missy make love in the rain.
Her grandfather’s guests were still in town, keeping her busy, so Trent didn’t
know he’d been caught, not yet. She didn’t want him to know, because she had a
plan.
She dressed carefully that night. She wanted to look fantastic. She wanted Trent
panting for her. And then she was going to ignore him. She was going to flirt
and dance with Paul. Then, when Trent dared to object, she was going to hit him
with what she knew.
At first, it had seemed the plan would work. While Susannah and Paul slow-danced
to Tammy Wynette, Trent sat in the corner, glowering, getting angrier by the
minute. Chase’s wife, Lila, who was a few years older than the Fugitive Four and
supplying the drinks for the whole table, had found it all hilarious. She’d kept
the liquor flowing freely, just to see what would happen.
And then, as if lightning had reached into the tacky bar, with its hay on the
floor and kerosene lanterns for mood lighting, everything went horribly,
tragically wrong.
Out of nowhere, Paul and Trent began to fight, and within three seconds, long
before even a sober person could react, the hay was on fire. And so was Paul.
Trent fell on him, rolling Paul away as if he could put out the flames with only
his body—although someone dragged him off before he, too, could become engulfed
in the fire. Chase was more sensible, and tore off his shirt and jacket, and
tried to smother the flames. A hard-eyed waitress found a bucket of water and
tossed it onto the burning, writhing figure that Susannah knew was Paul.
Eventually something worked, but not before Paul had been burned beyond
recognition. Beyond hope.
In her memory, the moment was always eerily silent, as if the screams that
filled the bar that night had left her deaf. Her screams, and Paul’s, and the
other guests’, who were stampeding for the door.
“I’m sorry, Paul,” she whispered now, as she did every year. And then,
sometimes, after the pebble’s ripples died away, she cried a little. It was the
only place she could let herself fall apart.
But today she was simply too tired for tears. She couldn’t feel much of
anything, except the ache in her arms.
Maybe it was time to give up this pointless pilgrimage. Paul wasn’t here, and he
never would be, not even if she filled Green Fern Pool to the brim with pebbles.
She hoisted herself to her feet, climbed back up the sandy track that led to the
real world, and made her way to her car. She cast a worried look at the sky,
which was more threatening than ever. She hoped she hadn’t lost her last hour of
picking time.
As she headed back to Everly, she was speeding a little, so she almost didn’t
see the other car pulled off by the side of the road, maybe a quarter of a mile
from the head of the Green Fern trail.
Few people took this small side road. Could someone else have been making a
pilgrimage, too?
She slowed, curious. She’d never seen anyone else at the pool on Paul’s
birthday. The anniversary of his death was coming up soon, only a little more
than three weeks away. That, not the birthday, seemed to be the occasion Mr. and
Mrs. Archer annually honored by visiting the cemetery, separately leaving large
bouquets of flowers.
But as she drew closer, she recognized Peggy Archer’s car. Peggy had pulled it
off onto the shoulder, and it was easy to see why. The back right tire was
completely flat, and the car tilted helplessly toward the wounded side.
Peggy herself sat crossways on the driver’s seat, her legs out the door, her
head in her hands. Her hair was a mess, and her face was red, as if she’d been
in the muggy heat a long time.
Susannah wasn’t sure what to do. Of all the people in the world who might stop
to play Good Samaritan, Susannah would be Peggy’s last choice. Especially today.
But she couldn’t just drive by as if she didn’t see her. Susannah knew how to
change a tire, of course, and she could have Peggy back on the road in minutes.
So she eased over, joining Peggy’s car on the right of way, and set her hazard
lights to flash. Even with little traffic, the weather was gloomy enough to make
it risky, here on the curve of the road.
“Hello, Mrs. Archer,” she said politely as she walked up to the disabled car.
“Looks as if you’ve had some trouble. If you’ve got a spare, I would be happy to
put it on for you.”
Peggy lifted her head, and Susannah realized that she’d been crying. It stopped
her in her tracks, as shocking as if the woman had turned out to be naked.
Peggy wasn’t a weeper. For six months, Susannah had come every day to Paul’s
hospital bed, where Peggy had sat, staring blank-eyed at the ruins of her son.
Not once in all those months had Peggy spoken a word to Susannah.
And never once had Susannah seen her shed a tear.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Archer? I have some water in the car…”
Peggy struggled to her feet, clearly favoring her left leg. Holding on to the
car door with one hand, she wiped briskly under her eyes with the other.
“I’m fine. The auto club is coming.” She looked at her watch. “They should have
been here half an hour ago.”
She tried to take a step, but the pain was evident on her face. “I would change
it myself. It’s just that my hip…getting down like that…” She touched her left
leg. “I took a second pain pill, hoping it would help—”
“What is it?” Instinctively, Susannah reached out. “Are you hurt?”
Peggy recoiled, as if Susannah were a snake striking. “I’m fine.” She took a
jagged breath. “I mean, it’s just arthritis.”
Just arthritis? Susannah saw sweat breaking out on the older woman’s brow and
upper lip. Simply standing here like this had flooded her with pain.
“Please, Mrs. Archer. Why don’t you sit in my car while I change the tire? The
keys are in the ignition. Turn the air on and get comfortable. It’ll only take a
few minutes.”
Peggy shut her eyes, and the veins at her temples pulsed under the sweat-shining
skin. “Perhaps I should,” she said, her shoulders sagging as if she’d just lost
some kind of battle. She reached into the car and pulled out an aluminum cane.
“The pill can leave me a little dizzy.”
After that flinch a minute ago, Susannah knew better than to put her arm under
Peggy’s elbow, but it was difficult to watch the woman limp away. Peggy hung on
to her own car’s bulk as long as she could and then lurched the rest of the way,
supported only by the cane.
When had this happened to her? This feisty, fabulous woman used to run the
domestic side of the ten-thousand-acre Bull’s Eye ranch like clockwork, while
still finding time to chair the PTA, the Little League and the Community
Coordinating Council. And she always had a few minutes left over to make
mouthwatering blueberry muffins to sustain the Fugitive Four when they got the
urge to wander.
Now she couldn’t walk ten steps. A muffled cry escaped Peggy’s tight lips as she
lowered herself onto Susannah’s driver’s seat. The cane clattered to the ground.
Susannah moved to recover it.
“No. Thank you,” Peggy said stiffly. “I think we should hurry. It’s going to
rain.”
“Of course. You’re right.”
Susannah got busy. She worked as fast as she could, aware of the other woman’s
gaze boring into her back. She wondered if she should try to make small talk,
but couldn’t think of anything that Peggy would want to hear.
She wondered again what Peggy was doing here. She knew that she had moved to
Darlonsville immediately after her divorce—maybe nine years ago now. The woman
seemed to avoid Eastcreek, and why shouldn’t she? Here, everything would remind
her of Paul.
As far as Susannah knew, Peggy came into town only once a year…to visit Paul’s
grave on the anniversary of his death. Even if she’d decided to mark his
birthday, she wouldn’t do it here, at Green Fern Pool.
The Fugitive Four had always vowed that, when they died, they wanted to be
cremated and scattered over Green Fern Pool. Chase had been the only one brave
enough, or innocent enough, to mention Paul’s wish to Peggy and Harrison Archer.
According to Chase, Peggy’s reaction had been kind of crazy. Cremate her
beautiful son? Scatter his ashes in the place he’d shared with his friends?
Chase had replicated the sarcastic emphasis on “friends.”
Never. Chase had told them her voice was so cold, so thick with hatred, that it
scared the hell out of him. When they killed her son, they lost their right to
him.
Paul belonged to her now.
Though the hot afternoon was humid, the pavement beside the car steaming with
every stray raindrop, Susannah felt a shiver zip up her back.
She turned her head, driven by a sudden need to be sure Peggy was still sitting
in the car.
She was. She was massaging her left leg, running her thumbs hard along the
muscle, from hip to knee and back again. Her face was tight, lined with pain.
Susannah’s hands stilled on the lug wrench. How unfair. After all Peggy had
already endured…
There should be some kind of limit on suffering.
“I’m sorry your leg is giving you so much trouble. Is there anything they can do
to help?”
Peggy looked up. Her eyes were red, and a little glazed, as if the pills might
have kicked in a bit too much, though they obviously hadn’t touched the pain.
“It’s not always this bad,” Peggy said in an oddly dreamy voice. Her thumbs kept
tracing her thigh muscle, though she fixed her slightly off-kilter gaze directly
on Susannah. The effect was unsettling, as if her body and her mind weren’t
quite in sync.
“It’s my own fault. I exacerbated it,” Peggy went on in that trancelike way. “I
walked too far, and I paid the price.”
Susannah returned to attaching the lug nuts, though her fingers were clumsy on
the wrench, and the silver bullet-like fasteners kept dropping onto the ground
and skittering away.
What did Peggy mean? Where had she walked? There was almost nothing out here,
nothing but Green Fern Pool.
“Were you…where did you go?”
For an uncomfortable second, silence hung in the air. In the distance, thunder
growled, and a drop of rain landed on Susannah’s cheek. In her peripheral vision
she could still see Peggy kneading her aching leg.
Finally the woman made a noise that sounded like a low laugh. “You know where I
went. I went to the pool.”
Susannah turned again. “To Green Fern Pool?”
Peggy nodded, still stroking rhythmically, still staring at Susannah without
blinking.
“Why?”
Slowly, Peggy smiled. “I was watching you.”

TRENT HAD WAITED three days, carrying around the two pieces of the contract,
which he had torn in half as soon as Doyle left the orchard. He had hoped that,
if he waited long enough, his anger would cool.
Not that he had much chance to talk to Susannah privately anyhow. She never
seemed to be alone these days.
She worked the orchard from dawn to dusk, and at night she recruited Chase and
Josie, and her friend Nell Bollinger, and even some of the part-time pickers, to
help her at the house.
It was like a big, happy commune, everyone working together in the spacious
Everly kitchen, canning and freezing and cooking and pickling.
Making sure not one slice of the unsold peaches went to waste.
Trent wasn’t invited, which was fine with him. He handled the pick-your-own
fields all day, and at night he went to the Double C, to catch up on his real
job. By the time he dragged his ass back to Everly, Susannah was sound asleep,
and he was too damned tired to care.
But on the third night, Trent didn’t close down the pick-your-own acres until
long after twilight. After leaving the cash for deposit with Zander and
discussing tomorrow’s schedule, he wasn’t in the mood to start over at the
Double C.
He rolled into Everly’s driveway about ten o’clock, at least two hours earlier
than usual. As he let himself in the front door, he was surprised to find the
house completely quiet. He’d expected to hear the usual cacophony of pots
bubbling, bottles clattering, blenders whining.
But the first floor was dark, except for one desk lamp on the landing, which she
must have left on so that he wouldn’t kill himself on the stairs.
He laughed a little, the sound oddly unpleasant in the cool stillness of the
shadowy foyer. Maybe he really should ask Doyle what the will said about her
inheritance if she suddenly became a widow. Did she have to start the year over
with another sucker, or did she immediately acquire all the power without having
to endure twelve months of marriage?
The sight of him tumbling down those stairs to his death might be her most
delicious secret fantasy.
He knew how unfair that was, but he didn’t much care.
Boy, was he in a crummy mood or what?
Damn it, though, Doyle had really pissed him off, with his accusations and his
“contracts” that were little more than blackmail.
And, frankly, so did everything else about this “marriage.” What had made him
think he could handle this? What kind of masochist signed up to spend every
night ten yards away from the woman he wanted so bad it was like starving?
He was halfway up the stairs when he heard the distant whistle of water.
Everly’s old pipes, narrowed by decades of rust, always complained whenever
anyone took a shower.
It had been useful, back when they were teenagers. The sound of the pipes
singing, which signaled her grandfather’s shower, had been the background music
for some pretty hot sessions on the library sofa.
Damn it. He stopped on the landing, feeling his body growing hard just
remembering. He hadn’t seen her naked in more than ten years, but he knew how
she would look right now, as she stepped into the shower.
Her breasts would have a copper glow above the shirt line in spite of the
repeated latherings of sunscreen, but the rest of her, the secret parts of her,
would be white and smooth.
Her breasts would be high, small but full. Her legs would be long, her belly
flat. Her fingers slim and nimble…
He shut his eyes, trying to fight it. But his heart raced, and the throb under
his jeans was unendurable. He moved quickly, pulling his shirt over his head as
he went.
As he passed through her bedroom, he dropped the pieces of Doyle’s contract onto
her bed. If she wondered later what had driven him to act so impulsively, this
would be her answer.
How many times would he have to explain that he didn’t want her money? He wanted
only what he’d been promised. A real marriage that didn’t consist of three
hundred and sixty-five nights of torture.
His belt slapped onto the dresser. His jeans and shoes came off at the bathroom
threshold.
He didn’t knock, didn’t ask for permission he knew he wouldn’t receive. She’d
given her permission when she made her original deal with him, and again when
she agreed in the wine cellar that she had an obligation to honor it.
He simply opened the shower door and stepped in.
With a small cry, she turned, the bar of soap falling from her hands and
thudding at her feet. Her face paled with absolute terror.
Damn it. He’d been ready for fury, but he hadn’t meant to frighten her. He felt
strangely ashamed. As always, the real, flesh-and-blood Susannah, the fragile,
brave-hearted beauty he’d loved since he was ten, unsettled him.
She was so different from the brittle devil woman of his imagination.
“It’s okay,” he said, instantly contrite. He scooped her soapy body into his
arms. “It’s just me, Sue. It’s just me.”
Almost as soon as he spoke, he realized she might have known it was him. Her
fear might well be of Trent himself, not some stranger who might have broken
into the house.
This was insane. Maybe she had been right about him all along. Maybe he was just
a selfish bastard.
He should leave her alone.
But once he had touched her, it was too late.
She hadn’t pulled away, and he didn’t intend to wait for her to reconsider.
“Trent,” she said, her voice shaking.
Before she could say another word, he kissed her hard on the lips, tasting water
and soap and heat and peaches.
Oh, he was lost. The skin of her gracefully muscled back was slick under his
hands. Without thinking, he stroked up to her shoulders, and then down to her
ass, which was so tight and perfect that he groaned as he cupped it in his
hungry palms.
Their lips still locked, he tilted her closer, against the erection that was
impossibly rigid and full, and slid easily into the soapy, peach-fuzz warmth
between her legs. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and the warm jets of
the shower spilled onto his face.
He tried to catch his breath, and couldn’t.
It really was like the first time all over again, as if his body were new to him
and not yet under his control. He thought he might come right that minute, just
from the pebbled thrust of her nipples against his skin, and the secret, wet
warmth of her mouth. Just from the way her silky thighs and her soft pubic hair
felt against his penis.
He seemed to be made of a hundred million nerves, every one on fire. The water
was so hot, and the shower was thick with steam, enveloping the two of them in a
sensual cocoon.
He felt oddly helpless, unable to think clearly, unable to feel anything except
the burning torture between his legs.
Without warning, she broke off the kiss. She looked at him for one long second,
and then she reached down and took the length of him into her palm.
He cried out, the fire screaming through him as he swelled even more, beyond
what any man could bear.
“No,” he said. “Wait.”
She didn’t wait. Her hand was firm, knowing and deliberate. She moved back and
forth, and he throbbed and flamed, and called out again. He stepped back, but
his shoulders met the shower wall, and there was no escape.
He couldn’t stand it. He tried to remember what he should do…there was something
he should do for her….
But he couldn’t think. He wasn’t a man anymore. He was just a piece of fiery
flesh, helpless in her hands. When she knelt down and pulled him into her mouth,
he groaned at the relief. He grabbed her wet head between his palms for balance.
“Susannah,” he cried and the orgasm was almost instantaneous. He was no more
able to prevent the beautiful explosion, the shudders of agonizing pleasure, the
pulses of white joy, than he could have if he were already dead.
She didn’t rush it. It seemed to last forever, but when it finally ended, when
the last, drained throb had died away, she stood and moved from him without
speaking.
Without even looking at him.
She turned her face to the shower, and opened her mouth, so that the warm water
would wash all traces of him away. She rinsed the rest of her body, sluicing off
the lingering white trails of soap.
Then she put her hand around the shower door and plucked a towel from the rack.
“And now,” she said as she covered herself, “you know how it feels.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE DAY BEFORE the annual peach party, Susannah had set her alarm for quarter to
dawn.
She had to superclean the house today, though she was dreading it like torture.
Everything, from the attic to the basement, was a mess. She hadn’t had a spare
minute in the past three weeks, and she couldn’t bear to think about what all
that cooking had done to the kitchen….
“Be quiet.” She fumbled for the snooze bar and hit it for the third time. “I
can’t face it yet.”
She tried to pull the pillow over her head, but the muscles in her arms screamed
that the pillow was made of lead and couldn’t be moved. She collapsed with a
groan. How were those burned-out arms going to sweep and vacuum, polish and wax?
She still had thirty-six hours till the party. Maybe, if she started phoning
people right now…
But she knew she couldn’t bring herself to call it off.
Thirty years ago, on the day Susannah was born, her grandfather had christened
the tradition of the annual Everly peach party. He’d had a good business head
back then, and he’d seen the advantage of combining a touching family
celebration with a little public relations.
She often wondered whether he would have bothered if her mother hadn’t gone into
labor at a lucky time, during that peaceful moment between the Harvesters and
the Red Globes, when the orchards seemed to pause and take a breath.
He already had all those workers on the payroll, and no peaches to pick. They
might as well be doing something.
Since then, the tradition had never skipped a year. He’d even passed up the
chance to plant Lorings, which would have ripened during the hiatus.
It was one of the few things they both loved, and they kept the ceremony intact
as a way of keeping the family together. When her parents died, he hosted it in
their honor. When he was addled with dementia, Susannah hosted it in his.
Of course, back in her grandfather’s day, three maids had scoured the house, top
to bottom, washing crystal, polishing silver and rubbing wood till it gleamed.
Two chefs had bustled about the kitchen, creating the wonders to wow the guests
and secure the reputation of Everly peaches for another year to come.
Even last year, she’d had one maid left in the house. And Nikki, though she was
a sullen worker at best. This time, it was just Susannah, and any friends
softhearted enough to take pity on her.
Chase and Josie had been lifesavers this past week, helping her whip up pies and
ice cream and jams and salsas, using the recipes in the burn center’s new
cookbook, which they’d give to the guests tomorrow night.
She forced herself to sit up, though the small of her back protested.
“Damn it.” She slid her legs slowly over the side of the bed, ignoring the
ribbon of pain along the front of her thighs. Even her toes hurt. That’s what
nearly a month of dawn-to-dusk peach picking could do.
Suddenly, something started to roar just outside her bedroom door.
She eased herself to a standing position. The roar sounded suspiciously like a
vacuum cleaner, but frankly it didn’t matter what was out there. A rabid
Minotaur could be racing down the hallway, planning to gobble her for breakfast,
and she couldn’t move any faster. It took ten minutes minimum to loosen up these
abused muscles.
She tugged her T-shirt, hoping it covered her bottom, limped across the room and
opened her door.
A beautiful young blonde in skintight blue jeans stood at the end of the hall,
right in front of Susannah’s grandfather’s room. Correction. Trent’s room now.
The blonde was, indeed, wielding a very large vacuum cleaner.
When she saw Susannah, she reached down and flipped the switch. The roar died
away.
“I’m sorry,” the blonde said. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”
Susannah looked down the hall, where another young woman was squatting, dusting
the complicated carved legs of the half-moon hall table. Susannah wondered
whether she might still be asleep and having a lovely dream.
The blonde fiddled with the vacuum’s cord, trying to free it from a chair leg.
“They said it was okay to start vacuuming once it turned seven o’clock.”
Susannah blinked. “Who is ‘they’?”
The blonde’s finger played over the vacuum’s on switch, itching to get going. “I
don’t know. You know. Home-Maid Harmony? We work for them.”
She stared at Susannah, clearly wondering whether she might be mentally
deficient. “You know? The people you hired?”
“But I didn’t—”
“No, that’s okay.” Trent appeared at the head of the stairs. He smiled at the
annoyed blonde, and of course her annoyance melted away like sugar in the rain.
“I did.”
Susannah felt suddenly awkward, with her raggedy T-shirt, bare legs and feet, an
unmistakable absence of underclothes and a serious case of bedhead.
She tugged at her T-shirt again. “You hired a cleaning company?”
He nodded. “I thought you could use some help.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Really.”
Both maids were watching curiously. As if they were the lead actors in a play,
Trent came over and put his knuckle under her chin. The loving husband.
Oh, why hadn’t she anticipated that this marriage would require so much
pretense?
She had avoided him for nearly three weeks now, since the episode in the shower.
Big-time avoidance. The back-out-of-the-drive-if-you-see-his-car kind of
avoidance.
Not easy, given how closely they worked and lived together. It had been like one
of those logic puzzles. You have a lamb, a wolf and some lettuce, and you have
to transport them across the river without ever letting the wolf be alone with
the lamb, or the lamb be alone with the lettuce.
After she’d left him in the shower that night, she’d found the contract offering
him $120,000, neatly ripped in half, scattered on the middle of her bed.
She could add two and two as well as anyone. Coupled with the brazen assertion
of his marital rights that followed, that destroyed document was a message. An
echo, really, of the things he’d already said. He didn’t want her money, but he
did want her body. He felt entitled to take it whenever he chose.
At first she’d felt pleased with herself, as if, by controlling the experience,
she’d won. Given him a taste of his own medicine. Taught him a lesson.
But when she saw him out in the orchard the next day, he hadn’t looked one bit
chastened. He’d smiled with his usual charm and perhaps even an extra dash of
roguish amusement.
Of course. What a fool she was. What had she expected? Men didn’t exactly blush
and fluster because a naked woman decided to service them free of charge. It was
undoubtedly every red-blooded man’s favorite fantasy.
And the worst thing was that, just as had happened after the episode in the
cellar, she thought about it all the time. All the time. She had never been so
turned on in her life. She buzzed with sexual awareness. She was actually afraid
that, if he came too close, he would be able to hear the sizzle. To smell the
hunger.
That was why she worked so hard at avoiding him. And she actually had a strange
feeling that he was cooperating. It was almost as if he realized that she’d been
unnerved by what she’d done and wanted to give her some space.
He stayed out in the orchard later, spent longer hours at the Double C
afterward. She might have suspected that he was seeing Missy Snowdon, except
that he didn’t have time. She heard regularly from both Zander and Chase, and
every single hour of Trent’s day and night was accounted for.
“The party’s tomorrow,” he said. “You didn’t think I was going to let you do all
this alone, did you?”
Yes, that was exactly what she’d thought, but she managed not to say so.
“Thank you, really. But it’s not necessary.” She backed up slightly, so that his
hand lost contact with her chin. “I can handle it.”
The blonde scowled hard, as if she saw her paycheck slipping away. “Look, all
six of us have already scheduled the day—”
Susannah gasped. “Six of you?”
Trent raised his eyebrows. “Apparently you haven’t seen the kitchen lately. Six
is the bare minimum, I’d say.”
She hesitated, knowing he was right. But she didn’t have the money, and she
didn’t want him spending his money, either. Not on her.
“Trent—”
“Excuse us,” he said politely to the maids. Then, without asking permission, he
pressed on the door, widening the opening, grabbed her hand and pulled her into
the bedroom. He shut the door behind them.
The drumbeat low in her midsection began to pound lightly. Her lungs tightened.
What was he going to do? One whisk of this T-shirt, ten steps to the bed, and
they could be…
She lifted her chin and glared at him, warning him not to cross the line.
To her surprise, the expression on his face was gentle. He reached out and
tucked a stray hair behind her ear. She ordinarily wore it braided when she
slept, but last night she couldn’t lift her arms above her head long enough to
do the job.
“Don’t be childish about it. Let’s just say it’s my birthday present to you.”
“We don’t give each other birthday presents.”
But she heard how immature and sullen she sounded. And, against her will, she
remembered other birthdays, with daisy-crowns and picnics, with CDs and books,
with gold lockets and brown kittens and kisses.
“Be practical,” he said. “You don’t have enough hours left to do it by yourself.
Let the maids work here today. I saw your list of errands on the kitchen table.
Get dressed, and we’ll go run some of them.”
We’ll run them? We?
Something tight inside her chest loosened as she realized the nightmare of today
could, with his help, morph into something much nicer. A day without pain and
desperation. A day without loneliness.
All she had to do was say yes. Graciously, with a thank you attached.
“I—I don’t know—”
“Sue, don’t be an idiot. We’ll be at the grocery store, at the bank. What could
possibly happen?”
She felt herself blushing. So he knew what she really feared. She feared that,
somewhere in all this chivalric heroism, he might feel that he’d earned the
right to touch her. And she feared that, if he did, he might ignite that fire
she was trying so hard to keep banked.
“Look, here’s how I see it. For the moment, the score between us is tied, one
all.” He smiled. “So how about we declare a truce? Just until the peach party is
over.”
He held out his hand. “Come on. We’re too exhausted to make war or love very
effectively right now.”
She took a breath and studied him. She could find no hidden meanings in his
words. No sardonic gleam behind his blue eyes. No tricks up his crisp white
sleeves.
She would be a fool to say no. It would have been pointless, anyhow, because the
blonde, who obviously wasn’t a patient woman, had flicked the switch, and the
vacuum had roared back into life.
So instead of answering at all, Susannah merely reached out and shook his warm,
strong hand.
And tried, God help her, to ignore how dangerously sexy it felt.

TRENT WAS IMPRESSED. Clearly Susannah had the instincts of a field general. Her
chores had been mapped out geographically, her grocery list was arranged to
correspond to the contents of each aisle, and, whenever necessary, she called
ahead to be certain the people and supplies she needed were readily available.
She even knew how to diplomatically dispatch unexpected social contacts, which
might have slowed her down. He marveled as she gave each friend the perfect
amount of attention required by courtesy. Three minutes for Nell Bollinger, two
for a doctor from the burn center, just thirty seconds for Bucky Sizemore’s
wife, who everyone knew was a bitch.
Susannah was so clever about it that no one seemed slighted—except perhaps Eli
Breslin, whom they passed outside the drugstore. Eli earned only a wave, and the
boy gave Trent a nasty glare to show that he knew where the blame should fall.
It could have been worse. Trent glimpsed Missy Snowdon in the wine shop, but he
was pretty sure neither woman noticed the other one. Now that would have been
bad luck.
By three o’clock, when he and Susannah stopped for a quick lunch at an outdoor
café, they had accomplished every errand on her daunting list. And they hadn’t
had a single moment of discord.
Six whole hours of cease-fire. That was a world record, at least in the years
since Paul’s death.
He wondered how long he could stretch it out.
She collapsed onto the metal chair with a sigh. “I can’t believe it,” she said.
“I didn’t expect to have time for a meal today. Or tomorrow, for that matter. I
thought I might be able to grab a peach, but that’s about it.”
He arranged the few packages they carried in the space between their chairs.
Most of the supplies had been delivered to Everly, where Zander would sign for
them and put them away.
“Frankly, I’d rather starve than eat another peach,” Trent said with a laugh. “I
want a hamburger the size of a truck.”
She picked up the menu. “Me, too. Well, not a hamburger, of course, but
something huge and—”
She looked up as a sudden shadow passed over their table. Trent felt his
shoulders tighten instinctively as he realized it was Harrison Archer, with his
younger redheaded son in tow.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Harrison said stiffly. He clearly wanted his smile to
look normal, but he wasn’t having much success. Trent wondered how many words
Harrison and Susannah had exchanged in the past ten years. Maybe ten? Twenty?
None?
Even the little boy looked nervous, as if he sensed that this wasn’t an ordinary
stop for chitchat. Trent smiled at the kid, hoping to make him feel more at
ease, but the boy’s sober expression didn’t change.
“It’s all right, Mr. Archer,” Susannah said politely. “We haven’t ordered yet.”
She waited, clearly unsure what came next.
Harrison didn’t speak for a couple of seconds. Trent dropped his menu, feeling a
primitive need to have his hands free, just in case. Which was ridiculous,
since, thanks to the healing arrival of his new family, Harrison seemed to have
moved beyond hostility toward either Susannah or Trent years ago.
Still…it felt weird, how the guy had appeared out of nowhere. He wasn’t
projecting his usual good-old-boy bluster. He looked a little off, with heavy
bags under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
Of course, it was harvesttime on the Bull’s Eye ranch, too. With that many
acres, the Archers were always harvesting something.
“I wanted to thank you for the invitation to the peach party,” Harrison said
finally. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I know you always send them,
just because your grandfather did, and I appreciate that. I wanted to let you
know that Nora and I will be there this year.”
Susannah was clearly so astonished even her beautiful manners couldn’t quite
hide it. She managed a smile. “That’s wonderful.”
“Yeah, well…It just seemed…” The older man appeared to be looking for the right
word. “It seemed like it was time.”
Susannah nodded slowly. “I’m glad,” she said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you.”
“Okay, then.” Harrison gave a nod to Trent, then turned, steering his son toward
the street, where his large black SUV gleamed in the sunlight, still sparkling
from a fresh wash.
Trent watched them until their car disappeared at the end of Main Street. And
then, to his surprise, he saw a Honda that looked a lot like Peggy Archer’s pull
out of a space down near the pet store and drive off in the same direction.
A small noise escaped Susannah’s lips. “Was that Mrs. Archer?”
“I thought it might be. But maybe it’s only because we just saw Harrison. Hondas
are pretty common.” He looked at her strained face. “Why?”
Susannah continued to gaze at the now-empty street, a small furrow between her
eyebrows. “I don’t know. I guess I was just surprised because I know she rarely
comes back to Eastcreek.”
It surprised Trent, too. He was well aware that Peggy had cut almost all ties
with her hometown, except for the occasional visit to Paul’s grave. She wouldn’t
even let Dr. Marchant treat her anymore, after a lifetime of his care.
He didn’t mention any of that, of course. Instead, he tried to think how he
could gracefully change the subject. He didn’t intend to let the Archers destroy
the fragile détente he’d achieved.
He was still sorting through the conversational universe, searching for a safe
topic, when his cell phone rang. He had told everyone at the Double C to solve
their own problems today, but the new hand had turned out to be a worrywart who
always thought the world was ending when one of the horses sneezed or refused to
eat.
It wasn’t the Double C. It was, mystifyingly, Blanche Scovel, who lived next
door to his father’s cottage, where Trent had laid his head for the past five
years. A retired librarian, Blanche was the perfect neighbor, a smart woman who
minded her own business.
When he’d moved out to begin his year at Everly, he’d given Blanche his cell
number, confident she wouldn’t dream of bothering him unless it was fairly
important.
He considered holding out the phone so Sue could see the caller ID, too, but he
knew she’d assume he was being sarcastic. So he simply answered it.
“Hi, Blanche. Everything okay?”
Susannah watched him carefully, her face impassive. He wondered whether she
thought him capable of talking to Missy Snowdon in code names.
I don’t lie anymore, Sue, he wanted to say. It is possible for people to change.
But what was the point?
He quietly listened to Blanche’s news, which she delivered in typical
no-nonsense fashion. In less than a minute, he had it all. He flipped shut the
phone and turned to Susannah.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. That was my neighbor. She says there have been
vandals at the cottage. If you’ll give me a ride as far as the Double C, you can
take the car back to Everly, and I’ll grab a truck from the ranch.”
“No.” She frowned. “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t have time—”
“Trent.” She put her hand on his arm. It lay there for maybe one second before
she thought better of it and pulled it away. “Thanks to you, I do have time. I
want to come.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t want to take the time.
Blanche hadn’t provided many details, and as Trent drove he couldn’t help
imagining what form the vandalism might have taken. He hoped it wasn’t major
damage. Insurance would cover it, but he didn’t have a spare second these days
to oversee repairs.
It took only about seven minutes to get there. As they turned onto his street,
Trent wondered if Susannah even remembered which house was his.
The Fugitive Four hadn’t spent much time here. It wasn’t snobbery that kept them
away. It was just that a tiny house on a quarter-acre plot didn’t offer enough
places to hide from the watchful eyes of Trent’s dad. Twenty thousand acres, on
the other hand, gave hormone-driven teens all the privacy they craved.
Trent had bought the house from his dad a few years ago, when his dad made it
clear he was eager to retire. It turned out great for both of them. Trent’s dad
got to take off and see the world, and Trent’s investment paid off big-time. In
the past few years, waterfront property had shot up, even when your water was
just a creek so narrow you could spit across it, if you got some help from a
decent wind.
From the street, everything looked okay—no visible damage. As he parked, he
noticed Blanche standing on her porch. She was painting her shutters, covering
the original dull green with a bright lavender.
Pretty soon, Trent’s cottage would be the only one not updated with Easter egg
pastels, which apparently were all the rage right now. His place was still an
old-fashioned white with black shutters, just the way it had been when his dad
lived here. His father was a compulsive gardener, so his color had come from the
flowers, trees and vegetables that filled every square inch of the yard.
That was all gone, now. Trent was too busy to keep up with it all. And he didn’t
care much. His house was just a place to sleep.
Susannah paused after she shut the door, looking at the plain rectangles of
grass that surrounded the house. She made a low, disappointed sound. “What
happened to the roses?”
“I don’t have time,” Trent said. “The neighbors took some of them. The rest just
died of neglect after Dad moved away, I’m afraid.”
“What a shame,” she said softly.
When Blanche saw them, she came to the railing, holding her paintbrush
vertically so that she wouldn’t drip blue on the yellow porch.
“The—well, the problem is in the back,” she said. “It wasn’t there yesterday,
I’m sure. It must have happened last night, or while I was at the hardware store
this morning.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Trent said. “We’ll go take a look.”
“I couldn’t believe…” Blanche looked awkwardly from Susannah to Trent,
hesitating.
Trent’s antennae prickled. Uncertainty was rare for this sensible woman, whose
thoughts always seemed to be as neatly organized as the rest of her life.
“Well,” she said finally. “I just wish I’d caught them, that’s all.”
Trent thanked her again, and he and Susannah walked around to the back, where
the creek sparkled under the bright sunlight. He wasn’t eager to take her into
the house—not because he had so many sentimental leftovers from the past hanging
around, but because he had so few.
With his dad’s collections of dried plants, books and family albums all gone,
the place looked more like a hotel room than a home. Neat, but sterile.
Efficient, but oddly hollow.
It looked like the house of a man who was waiting to discover where he really
belonged.
He didn’t necessarily care to put that emptiness on display.
The mood was brighter out here, where a few hardy perennials had survived his
neglect. Plumbago never died, and its blue flowers could handle summer heat. The
watermelon-colored crape myrtle was just starting to bloom, and the waterside
bank of lantana gold had spread another two feet since he’d been gone.
“Oh, this is beautiful,” Susannah said happily. She ran her hand along the soft,
white-flowered mounds of Indian hawthorne as they turned the corner. “Do you
still have the firecracker plant? Were you able to keep the angelwing?”
Straightening, she shaded her eyes with her hand and scanned the backyard. Trent
did, too, but for a different reason. He was looking for the vandalism,
wondering what could have so upset his unflappable neighbor.
They both saw it at the same moment. Trent managed to react only with a
tightening of his jaw, but Susannah gasped.
“Oh, Trent.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no.”
The clean white back of the house had been mutilated with blood-red spray paint.
It looked as if it had been attacked by a slasher. And recently. The paint still
glinted angrily in the sun.
BASTARD, the vandal had written in block letters to the left of the glossy black
door.
And on the right he’d made his letters even larger, as if to emphasize his
message.
MURDERER.
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN EVERLY LOOKED like this, with glass gleaming, silver sparkling and wood
glowing with the contentment of a hundred years of care, Susannah remembered why
she would do anything on earth to preserve the grand old dame.
The peach party was in full swing, and it was clear they had a success on their
hands. The surly blond bombshell Trent had hired had turned out to be a hell of
a housekeeper. When Trent and Susannah had got home that evening, after
reporting the vandalism at the cottage to the sheriff, Everly had been spotless.
This morning, Imogene, Chase’s housekeeper at the Double C, who was a genius
with fresh flowers, had delivered a dozen huge arrangements of roses and
daisies, and all the best blooms a Texas summer had to offer.
And, of course, all that cooking had paid off. An hour into the party, at least
a hundred guests were milling around, inside the house as well as out back in
the white tents overlooking the orchards.
Their plates were heaped with peach desserts, and it was funny to watch them
trying to simultaneously chew and gush about how delicious everything was.
The favorite this year seemed to be the peach custard streusel pie, which was so
fantastic it could make even Susannah’s mouth water, though she had eaten enough
peaches lately to last a lifetime.
“Great party,” Richard Doyle said, strolling up with a champagne flute in each
hand. “And you look magnificent. How about a birthday toast?”
She accepted the drink and the compliment—which couldn’t possibly be true, given
how tired she was—with a smile.
“Thanks. I’m sorry I haven’t had any time to chat, but…” She sighed. She was
mighty glad she’d decided to splurge on several waiters and a bartender.
Otherwise she might have lost her mind.
“Even when you think you’re prepared, there’s so much to do.” She scanned the
living room, seeing several new arrivals who must have shown up while she was in
the kitchen. “So many guests to talk to. I haven’t seen some of these people
since last year.”
“It’s a flattering turnout,” Richard agreed, sipping his champagne, letting his
gaze sweep over the crowd, too, though he couldn’t have known many of the
guests. “Your grandfather would be proud.”
She watched him over the rim of her crystal flute. He was so good-looking…or, at
least, he should have been. He had crisp leading man features, hair like spun
gold, and an air of elegance you didn’t often see in cowboy country.
She knew he had been interested in her ever since they met at the reading of her
grandfather’s will. She’d even wondered once, as they discussed details a few
months later, whether he might be hinting that he’d like to serve as the husband
she needed.
But that had felt oddly unethical—would he really suggest he help break a will
he himself had written? And of course she could never marry a man she hardly
knew. The risks were too great. Even the most ironclad prenup, as everyone knew,
was just the starting point for divorce negotiations.
Most importantly, though, was that somehow she couldn’t work up even the tiniest
poof of chemistry when she was around him. He might as well have been a
cardboard cutout of a movie star, for all the effect he had on her pulse.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, spying Harrison and Nora Archer entering the front
hall. The pair looked awkward, as if they might back out again. “I see someone
else I need to talk to. Please, help yourself to the streusel. It’s fabulous.”
She didn’t look back to see whether he was annoyed. She set her flute on the
nearest table and made a beeline for the door.
“Mr. Archer,” she said. “I’m so glad you really could make it.”
She smiled at Nora, a woman much closer to Susannah’s age than to Harrison’s.
Tonight, the age difference between husband and wife was even more pronounced.
Next to Nora’s peaches-and-cream skin and bouncing red curls, Harrison looked
gray, sour and just plain old.
Once again, Susannah was struck by how much Nora resembled a younger Peggy. It
was almost obscene, and she frequently wondered how Nora could stand knowing she
would always be the copy, never the original.
“Hi, Susannah.” Though Nora was smiling politely, neither she nor her husband
had moved a muscle, as if they’d just entered the lion’s den. She glanced
nervously up at Harrison, asking in spouse-code whether he intended to stay.
Hoping to prevent their departure, Susannah took Nora’s arm and nudged her away
from the door. “Won’t you come in and taste some of the recipes? They’re
particularly good this year. And I see Fred Bollinger over there. I know he’d
love to see you.”
That was a bit of luck. Harrison and Fred were friends from way back, when
they’d both made a killing on some land just south of town. Susannah finally saw
the stiffness fall from Harrison’s face as he spotted, then moved in to greet,
his buddy.
“Thank you,” Nora whispered, her eyes carefully watching her husband as he moved
into the room. “I wasn’t sure he’d actually be able to come. This is a hurdle he
needed to jump, you know? He has to move past this…this baggage.”
Susannah didn’t respond. That was what people on the outside always said, that
you were hanging on to old baggage, that you needed to get over it, forgive and
forget, move on. They had no idea how pain and guilt and anger could live inside
you, their throb becoming like a second heartbeat. You could go days without
consciously thinking of them, but they were always there, and eventually you
couldn’t imagine life without them.
“He’s a good man,” Nora went on, her voice soft. “He deserves to be happy.”
Susannah didn’t know Nora well, but she’d often questioned whether the marriage
could really be based on love. Harrison was such a stereotypical good-old-boy,
with his bandy legs, puffed-out chest and avaricious eyes. As a child, she’d
been a regular in his household, and she knew that he was chauvinistic,
dictatorial and hard to please.
But the worried tenderness on Nora Archer’s face certainly looked like love.
“Can I get you some champagne?” Susannah glanced around for a waiter with a tray
of fresh flutes. “I’d be happy to—”
The front door opened again. Instinctively, Susannah turned, a welcoming smile
on her face. Which of her guests wasn’t here yet? She still hadn’t heard from
Jim Stilling, who was out of town on a case.
Maybe Dave Stanley and his daughter had decided to come after all?
But the person who walked through the door was one who absolutely had not been
invited. It was someone who should have been miles and miles away.
“Nikki?”
Susannah’s voice couldn’t possibly have traveled all the way to Nikki’s ears,
but the younger girl glanced over, just as if she’d heard. She met her big
sister’s horrified gaze stubbornly, her eyebrows raised in an expression of
insolent defiance she must have practiced ahead of time.
Oh, Lord. Susannah’s chest tightened. The school was fifty miles away. How had
Nikki managed to get here? Had she hitchhiked? Had she taken a bus? Could she
possibly have saved enough money for a cab?
She was wearing too much makeup, naturally. She had cut her hair, and wore it
spiked out. Her plaid skirt deliberately waged a war of aesthetics with her
striped and wrinkled boy’s shirt. She would have looked terrible even if she’d
been going to a street fight. At a formal party, she looked…bizarre.
Susannah hurried over, her anger building. “What are you doing here? How did you
get here?” She took Nikki’s arm and pulled her into the shadowy alcove formed by
the curve in the staircase. She tried to keep her voice low. “Tell me you didn’t
hitchhike.”
Nikki shrugged. “Okay,” she said, smiling with one side of her mouth. “I didn’t
hitchhike.”
One, two, three… Susannah took a deep breath, hoping sanity would prevail.
“What are you doing here? Art school is not over for another month. I expressly
told you that—”
“That what? That I wasn’t welcome in my own home? That I couldn’t be here for my
own sister’s birthday?” For the first time, Nikki’s face looked her real age, a
very mixed-up sixteen. Susannah remembered being that age, trying to face down
her grandfather.
Her heart melted a little.
And of course Nikki caught the scent of vulnerability. She put on her best
wheedling expression. “I haven’t ever missed a peach party in my life, Susannah.
Or your birthday. I couldn’t miss this one. I just couldn’t.” She let her eyes
get misty. “What are you going to do, throw me out?”
Susannah knew checkmate when she saw it. She glanced over her shoulder toward
the guests, who hadn’t seemed to notice Nikki’s arrival. She made a quick
decision.
“Okay, look. I’ll make you a deal. If you want to be at this party so badly, go
upstairs and make yourself look like a person who would have been invited. If
you behave yourself, you can stay. I won’t say another word tonight, and we can
talk about…all this…in the morning.”
Nikki grinned, leaned in and kissed Susannah on the cheek.
“Okay.” She started to skip toward the stairs, turning at the last minute. “Oh,
and there’s a guy outside who needs a hundred-fifty dollars, okay? You’ll
recognize him. He’s the one in the bright yellow car.”
Susannah’s eyes widened, and for a minute she thought she might run after her
spoiled sister, drag her back out to the cab and give the driver a million bucks
to dump her off the edge of the earth.
A hundred and fifty dollars? Didn’t Nikki have a clue how many peaches you had
to pick, with aching arms and stiff, stinging fingers, to net that much profit?
“I’ve got some cash on me,” Trent said, suddenly appearing at her elbow. “I knew
we might have to hire some cabs after all the champagne tonight, anyhow. Might
as well start with this one.”
Susannah turned to him and tried to smile. “Thank goodness you planned ahead.”
She pressed her fingers between her eyes. “Do you have any idea how many times
in the past two days you’ve rescued me?”
“I guess I forgot to keep count.” With a wink, he reached into the pocket of his
tuxedo, which, she noticed, looked absolutely fantastic, and pulled out some
folded money. “Should we see if we can lower the price by throwing in a piece of
the custard streusel?”
She wouldn’t have thought she could laugh, this soon after the shock of seeing
Nikki, but she did. She followed Trent out to the front, where a bored driver
sat behind the wheel of his dusty cab in the oyster shell driveway.
Susannah knew she should stay inside and tend to her guests, but she needed a
minute of privacy. Everyone else was either in the house or out back in the
tents, admiring the view. She’d strung paper lanterns in the nearest rows of
peach trees, and they looked like a fairy-tale land glimmering in the distance.
Out here, though the view was more prosaic, the air was cool, the moon was full,
and the smell of the peaches wafted toward them, hanging in the air like unheard
music. Surely it wouldn’t be a social fatality to steal a minute or two.
She hung in the background, leaning against one of the porch’s newel posts,
until the cabbie peeled off, clearly annoyed at having been kept waiting. Trent
made sure the man exited the property, then joined Susannah at the foot of the
steps.
“That girl is a hard one to tame, isn’t she?”
She sank onto the second step and sighed. “I’m starting to think it’s
impossible. She doesn’t care about danger. She’ll take any risk. When she wants
something bad enough, she doesn’t think twice. She just goes out and gets it,
and damn the cost.”
He smiled. “Sometimes that’s called courage.”
“Maybe. But it’s never called wisdom. And it takes wisdom to stay safe.”
He rested his arm on the post, his long-fingered hand dangling not far from her
cheek. “You don’t think safety might be just a little bit overrated?”
“Not for Nikki.” She glanced up at the window to her little sister’s room, where
a light blazed for the first time in six weeks. “Not for anyone, really.”
He knew what she was talking about, of course. He’d been there all those years
ago when news came of her parents’ car crash, and he’d been there throughout the
next few difficult years while she tried to take on the role of Nikki’s mother.
He had watched her develop the protective anxiety that goes along with the job.
But he also knew that she bitterly regretted the one time in her own life when
she’d acted on impulse, and the foolish mistake that had caused her world to
explode around her.
They fell into an edgy silence. He had no intention of talking about any of that
openly. Neither of them wanted to dredge up the whole business with Paul
tonight, right in the middle of their truce. They’d even managed not to discuss
the subject yesterday at his cottage, though the words scrawled on his walls
were like a neon sign, pointing to Paul.
Who had written them, she wondered? The story was old but not forgotten in
Eastcreek, so theoretically it could have been anyone. But she couldn’t put that
disturbing image of Peggy out of her mind. Peggy’s unfocused eyes, her slurred
voice saying, “I was watching you.”
On the other hand, Trent hadn’t seemed too worried. He’d simply observed that it
wasn’t surprising that their marriage had stirred up emotions. He’d calmly
phoned the sheriff, and then he’d called someone from the Double C to paint over
it.
Typical Trent. No muss, no fuss, always in control.
He sat down beside her on the steps. She didn’t shift away, even when he brushed
a small white jasmine bloom from her hair. But she did sigh, releasing some of
the weariness of the past few weeks.
He reached out, took her face in his hand and lifted it to catch the porch
light.
“You look like hell,” he said.
She laughed. “Oh, really? I’ll have you know this is my best dress.” She lifted
a flounce of the silky fabric, letting the gold threads wink in the moonlight.
This had been her “best” dress for the past seven years, but it fit well enough
that most men didn’t care that it was slightly out-of-date.
Most men didn’t even look above her neck.
She let the skirt fall, arranging it around her with a mock hauteur. “And
Richard Doyle said I looked…I think the word he chose was magnificent.”
Trent made a sound. “Richard Doyle is as slick as an oil spill. The dress is
killer, and you know it. But your eyes look tired, Sue. I’ll be glad when the
party’s over, and you can get some rest.”
“Three days,” she said, sighing just to think of it. “Three days off, and then
the Redglobes need to be picked. And from there it’s goodbye sleep until
August.”
“Damn it.” He took her bare shoulders in his hands. “Let me hire someone to take
your place. Get out of the orchard and get some rest.”
She shook her head. “I know you mean well, but it won’t work like that. I need
to be out there. I can keep people motivated, and I can spot problems better
than anyone, even Zander. I know what needs to be done.”
“Sue—”
She put her hand up and let it rest on his. “I’ll be fine. I do this every year.
It’s crazy while it lasts, but it’s my life. I love the orchard. I’m not afraid
of hard work.”
“But I want…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. His gaze had dropped to her mouth, and she felt
his fingers tighten on her shoulders.
Instantly, her blood began to sizzle. It was crazy, with a hundred people
inside, with Nikki upstairs, with her hostess duties going untended, but she
knew what he wanted, and she wanted it, too.
He leaned his head closer, his gaze still on her lips. She wasn’t sure she could
breathe. Strobelike images from the wine cellar, and from the shower, flashed
through her mind. She suddenly felt like a powder keg, sitting too close to a
flame.
“I want you, Susannah,” he said, and he was so close his warm breath fanned her
skin. She tilted her head, trying to make it easy for him, trying to make it
happen.
But, as if the fates intervened to save her from herself, she heard Chase’s
truck pull up in the drive. He must have seen the two of them sitting there,
because he rolled down his window and called out a cheery hello before he even
killed the engine.
“Sorry we’re so late, but Josie had to have her dress let out, and the damn
seamstress didn’t get done with it until—”
They heard a small scuffle and a muffled cry. “Hey, that hurt! Why shouldn’t I
tell them?” Chase smiled over at them again. “Sorry, Josie thinks she looks fat,
which is ridiculous because—”
Susannah had jerked to her feet, as shocked and awkward as if she’d been caught
murdering someone, instead of just preparing to kiss her husband. She felt
exposed and embarrassed, though she wasn’t sure why.
Trent, on the other hand, still sat on the step, looking ridiculously sexy but
completely at ease.
Chase dropped his jaw. “Hey, wait a minute. Were you guys actually…?” He
grinned. “You were.”
He laughed, then turned to his wife. “They were.”
“Chase,” Josie said, though she was smiling herself. “Shut up.”
“Yeah, Chase,” Trent agreed smoothly as he finally got to his feet. He reached
out to open the truck door, as if they’d been out here solely to play valet for
the newlyweds. “Do us all a favor and shut up.”

THE LAST GUEST didn’t leave until one in the morning, when Trent called a cab
and pretty much stuffed the drunken fool into it.
Chase and Josie didn’t count as guests, of course. They stayed another hour,
helping with cleanup, until Chase noticed the circles under Josie’s eyes and
went into expectant father panic, insisting on taking her home.
At two-thirty, Trent decided to patrol the grounds one last time, just to be
sure they hadn’t overlooked anyone who might have passed out on the grass from a
surfeit of great food and free champagne.
In Zander’s office, where all the outdoor breakers were located, he flicked off
the power to the paper lanterns, watching through the window as the rows of
peach trees blinked out and disappeared, like the finale of a magician’s act.
He heard crickets in the silence, and the irritable hoot of an owl, but nothing
out of place. Everything felt right, and he decided to head back to the house.
But as he passed the barn, something nebulous tweaked at his senses. It was
dark, as it should be, and it was completely quiet. So what was it? He stood,
his hands in his pockets, and tried to figure it out.
Smoke. That was it. He smelled smoke. It was a dreaded scent on any working
land, and though this was too faint to be an actual fire, an overlooked
cigarette from a tipsy guest could smolder for hours before finally flashing
into flame.
Besides, this didn’t smell old. It smelled fresh. And there hadn’t been any
guests out here since midnight, over two hours ago. He stood completely still
and stared at the barn. Sure enough, in a couple of minutes he heard the sound
of muffled laughter, followed by the scratch and flare of a match.
He moved quickly, opening the door before the people inside had a chance to dart
for cover. Moonlight knifed through the open door, its full glow bright enough
to show him the whites of the girl’s eyes and the burning red tip of the boy’s
cigarette.
Damn it all. It was Nikki and Eli Breslin. The little bastard had the cigarette
in one hand, and Nikki Everly’s breast in the other.
“Well,” Trent said coldly. “What a surprise.”
Nikki leaped back. The boy stared right at him, unfazed, and actually had the
nerve to grin and take a long drag on his cigarette.
Nikki, on the other hand, wasn’t looking at anyone. She was too busy trying to
retie the bows that held up her evening gown.
Trent wondered how far this would have gone, if he hadn’t caught them in time.
Susannah had been so pleased when Nikki meekly returned downstairs tonight,
bathed and combed, her face washed and repainted with only some ladylike lip
gloss. She had even chosen a sleeveless yellow dress that modestly reached her
knees.
Susannah had clearly been proud of her dignified little sister, introducing her
to everyone. But Trent, as a male, recognized the danger, and he hoped that Eli
Breslin didn’t somehow catch a glimpse of her.
This cool, perfumed young beauty would be far more tempting to men than the
scruffy guttersnipe Nikki ordinarily appeared to be.
Now, with slivers of hay in her mussed hair, her dress askew, and the lip gloss
smeared and kissed off, she looked exactly like what she was: jailbait.
Eli flicked the ashes from the end of his cigarette. He raised his eyebrows.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Maxwell?”
“You can go home,” Trent responded pleasantly. “I’m afraid the party’s over.”
Eli grinned. “Yours may be,” he said. “I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t invited to that
one. But I’m pretty sure ours is just beginning.”
Eli lifted a bottle of beer from his side and knocked back a long swig. Trent
hadn’t seen the liquor, but it explained a lot. Eli was insulted to be left off
the guest list, but he probably would have swallowed it except that the beer had
lulled his self-preservation instincts to sleep.
Without the engaging, ass-kissing facade in place, the real Eli Breslin emerged.
Arrogant and spiteful and amoral as hell.
Even Nikki looked uncomfortable at his naked disrespect. She risked a look at
Trent from under her eyebrows, then turned to Eli.
“Maybe I should go,” she mumbled, toeing the hay.
“Suit yourself.” The boy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But he’s
not your dad, is he? What can he do?”
“He can tell my sister.”
“Ooooh.” Eli drew the sound out rudely. “Tell your sister? You really are a
baby, aren’t you? Too bad they let you grow boobs before you grow a spine.”
Trent felt his heart beating up around his ears, and red sparks flashed at the
edges of his vision. His right hand curled into a fist, but somehow he kept it
at his side.
Oh, yeah, this kid was asking for it.
In the old days, Trent would simply have punched the little bastard. But he’d
learned eleven years ago that the smallest act of violence, even one that felt
completely justified at the time, could take on a life of its own. And you could
end up losing a lot more than your temper.
He had sworn he’d never make that mistake again.
Somehow he kept his voice even. “Susannah is in the kitchen, Nikki. If you slip
in the front door right now, she won’t see you.”
The girl hesitated. God, hormones were powerful, weren’t they? Even after Eli’s
last comment, she didn’t want to lose face in front of him. She didn’t want to
prove herself a child by letting Trent boss her around.
He let it go, aware that further pushing would only make things worse. The
problem wasn’t really Nikki, anyhow.
“Here’s the deal, Breslin.” He took out his cell phone. “I’m going to give you
thirty seconds to take that booze, that cigarette, and your filthy ass out of
this barn. Then I’ll give you another thirty seconds to get off this property.
Maybe two hours to get out of Eastcreek altogether.”
Eli spit on his fingers, then snuffed out his cigarette between his thumb and
forefinger, a trick he’d probably spent months perfecting. “And if I don’t?”
Trent flipped open the phone. “If you don’t, you’re going to find out what
happens to men over eighteen who put their dirty hands on underage girls.”
“Oh, yeah? Like she didn’t want me to.”
Trent smiled. “Like that matters.”
Eli stared at him, clearly trying to cut through the brain fog and figure out
what to do.
“Oh, sorry,” Trent said, starting to press the numbers of Zander’s private line.
“I forgot. Your brain obviously isn’t working very well tonight.”
The phone began to ring. Zander answered quickly, as a good foreman always did.
“Hey,” Trent said. “Can you come out to the barn for a minute? Eli Breslin just
quit, and he needs someone to help him find his way to the bus station. He’s
been drinking, and, as you know, he’s pretty stupid even when he’s sober.”
That was all the humiliation the kid could take. Without so much as a goodbye
glance at Nikki, he charged through the barn door, shouldering Trent
aggressively as he passed.
Then he disappeared into the night.
Trent didn’t bother to try to stop him. Zander would catch him as he gathered
his things. The old foreman was a savvy man. Trent had complete faith that the
boy would be on a bus by dawn.
He turned to Nikki.
“Look,” he said, “I know we haven’t seen much of each other in a long time, and
you’ve probably heard a lot of bad things about me. But you’re just going to
have to take my word for this. Your sister is dog tired, and she doesn’t need
this kind of crap. Not ever. But definitely not tonight.”
He’d half expected a sullen comeback, but Nikki just stared at the ground.
“Do you get what I’m saying?”
She didn’t look up. “You’re saying you’re not going to tell her.”
Well, that certainly cut to the chase. She apparently wasn’t as dumb as she
looked.
“That’s right. I’m not going to tell her, not because I don’t think you need a
good thrashing, but because she’s too tired to give it to you.”
She shifted her shoulders. “She’s always too tired. To tired to pay any
attention to me, anyhow. That’s why she sent me off to school, you know.”
He shook his head, irritated. “Spare me. You want her attention, be where she
is. Do what she does. Climb up on a ladder with her and pick some peaches. Get
out a calculator and help her balance the books. Better yet, go get a towel
right now and help her dry some of those dishes.”
Nikki finally looked at him. Her pout had disappeared. “It’s almost three. She’s
still cleaning up?”
“That’s right. I don’t know how she’s even standing, but she’s still cleaning
up.”
Nikki hesitated one more minute, fiddling with her spaghetti straps. Then she
nodded slowly.
“Okay,” she said. “I guess I can help.”
He watched her all the way to the kitchen door. And, though he had planned to go
in there himself, sweep Susannah off her tired feet and carry her up to bed, he
let Nikki take his place.
Susannah had been happy tonight. And he’d give up anything to make sure she
stayed that way.