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He’d made his excuses and left soon after that, though it had been a hard-won retreat. Sensing his cooling, Mitzy had redoubled her efforts to fan his flames. But knowing she wouldn’t thank him tomorrow if he took what she was offering tonight, he’d politely declined—and gained no gratitude for his self-control. He winced, remembering her final tearful reply as he stood shuffling on her doorstep, hat in his hands.
“Thanks? Thanks for nothing, cowboy!”
“Well, damnation, what was I supposed to do?” he now asked the night and the mountains. His truck was mounting the last rise of the county road that twisted up the valley past Suntop.
He’d given nothing tonight, taken nothing. Felt nothing now but shame and frustration and emptiness. A man felt nothing but small when he failed to give a woman what she needed, wanted. And as for his own wants—He thought of that handful of condoms in his wallet and groaned aloud with embarrassment. If he hadn’t needed both hands for steering, he would have yanked them out and tossed them to the winds!
He reached the main gate to the ranch, and, as his truck turned under the big name board that arched overhead and rumbled across the cattle guard and onto his own land, Rafe heaved a sigh of relief. At least here on Suntop, everything was simple.
As he drove the last half-mile up to the manager’s house, his eyes automatically swept the pastures to either side, his mind cataloguing the state of the grass—greening up nicely since they’d moved the yearlings last week. The condition of the fences—a post on the right looked wobbly, tell Anse tomorrow. He braked as a whitetail deer soared over the right fence, touched once, twice on the roadway, then flew away over the left into darkness. He brought the truck to a halt and waited, and sure enough here came a second, then a third, fourth and fifth. A fawn raced frantically along the barbed wire, calling, and one of the does leaped back the way she’d come to meet it.
Rafe drove on—then let out a grunt of surprise as he topped the last rise and saw Zoe’s Mustang.
Must have just arrived, he realized as he parked beside it, outside the back door. She’d yet to shut off her headlights, and the passenger door swung wide. Great. Much as he loved his daughter, she wasn’t the sort of company he’d had in mind tonight. And given his mood, he’d sooner get over his frustration alone, with a cold beer and a good book by the fire, than be forced to sit in the kitchen, eating a bowl of ice cream, while Zoe quizzed him in cheerful detail about his big night out.
“Daddy!” Zoe leaped down the porch steps to the yard, with the dogs, Woofle and Trey, bounding at her heels. “What are you doing back?”
“Called it an early night,” he said, walking around to her door to close it. As he leaned in to turn off her lights, he saw the bags of groceries crowding the seat and the floorboards. He scooped up the nearest four and straightened. “You’re supposed to be over at Lisa’s,” he noted.
“She, um…got sick. Flu, I guess. It seemed smarter to not stay over. So I swung by the grocery store, then came back.” Zoe reached for one of his bags. “Here—give me that one.”
“I’ve got it.”
She tugged it out of his arms. “This one’s got the eggs. There’s a really heavy one with lots of cans. If you’d get that…”
“Sure.” He followed her up the steps to the porch, the dogs surging delightedly around their feet, celebrating this reunion as if he and Zoe had been gone a month instead of hours. “Woof, sit.”
The Airedale dropped on the stoop, stub tail wagging, while the jealous Border collie, hearing a command, spun on her furry length and shoved out the kitchen door for her own—just as Zoe stepped up over the threshold from the mudroom.
“Watch it!” Arms full, Rafe lunged helplessly toward her, then stopped short as she tripped over the dog and went sprawling headlong. “Zoe!” He set his bags down. “Baby, are you—”
“I’m fine.” She pushed herself to her elbows, laughing, as the collie bathed her face with apologetic kisses. “Stop, Trey! Back off!” She curled her long legs under her and sat, as Rafe dropped on his boot heels beside her. Then her smile vanished, and her mouth rounded to an “Oh” of dismay.
“You’re hurt! Where?” He ran his hands down her slender arms. She’d broken her wrist years before in just such a fall. Not yet grown into her legs, she was always tripping, still clumsy as a foal.
“N-no, I…” She was staring beyond him at the cans and boxes that had scattered across the floor. Her eyes switched to his face and she gave him a shaky smile. “I’m fine, Daddy, really. Perfectly fine.” She started to rise. “If you’d go get the rest of the groceries, I’ll—”
“You’ll sit till you catch your breath.” Rafe glanced around for a chair, stood to get it. He scanned the spilled groceries, seeking the carton of eggs she’d mentioned. A blue box had tumbled nearly to the stove. As the words on its label registered in the back of his mind, his gaze stopped. Swung back. And locked on.
“Um, Daddy?” she said in a tiny quaver as he crossed the room.
He could hear the blood thumping in his ears. Those words couldn’t say what he thought they’d said.
What they really said.
Impossible. He straightened, holding a pregnancy test kit.
“What’s this for?” he asked in a voice that didn’t sound remotely like his own.
THE DUDES in Aspen Cabin and Cottonwood Cabin, who had driven over to the Indian cliff houses at Mesa Verde National Park for the day, had returned, tired, sunburned and happy—and an hour and a half later than they’d promised.
By that time Dana had assumed they’d stopped to eat in town. Recklessly switching her menu at the last minute, she’d decided that Sunday would be Barbecue Night, instead—you really needed a crowd out on the deck to make it a festive occasion. She’d told Sean to scatter the coals and let the fire die out in the outdoor grill, while she’d whipped up a tomato-and-onion quiche with a spinach salad for her remaining guests, the two sisters from Boston. They were perpetually fussing about calories, anyway, so let them eat light for once.
But no sooner had Dana pulled the quiche from the oven than the truants had trooped in, appetites raging, consciences shameless, innocently expecting a hot, home-cooked meal to materialize out of thin air.
“They’re brats,” she confided to Petra in the privacy of her kitchen. “Could even teach you a thing or two, sweetie, but don’t you listen.”
No fear there. Utterly absorbed in a game of Follow the Leader with Zorro, the cat, Petra scuttled across the linoleum, rump high, diaper askew. “Ca, ca, ca, ca!” she declared, reaching for Zorro’s tail, as he leaped up to the safety of a chair tucked under the kitchen table. Zorro whisked the endangered prize out of sight, then stepped serenely onto the next chair and sat to lick a paw.
“Cat, that’s right,” Dana crooned absently while she sliced the quiche into cocktail-size bites and arranged them on a platter. This, two bottles of wine and a bowl full of cherries, should keep her guests amused for the next twenty minutes or so.
But what then? Think, Dana.
She was too tired to think, and the pressure of ten healthy appetites demanding satisfaction in her living room sent her thoughts whirling like clothes in the dryer. Oh, drat, she hadn’t moved the load from the washer an hour ago, had she?
Focus, she commanded herself as she tucked the bottles of wine under her elbow, then hoisted the platter and bumped her hip against the swinging door that led into the dining room. As she passed the long mahogany table, she realized she’d told Sean to set it for four. She’d need another eight settings now.
But first food, she reminded herself. “Cocktail hour!” she announced with a smile and a flourish, handing the platter to Caroline Simmons and nodding at the coffee table. “And Leo, would you play bartender?” He was the one member of the latecomers who’d had the grace to look embarrassed. She placed the bottles of chardonnay on the sideboard, where he’d find glasses and a corkscrew.
“Could you use any help in the kitchen?” he asked, smiling down at her.
“Oh, thanks, not at all! Just sit down and put your feet up. You’ve had a long day.” She threaded her way through the rest of her milling guests, with a smile and a word for each, then went up the front stairs, consciously imitating Zorro’s unruffled serenity. Once she’d turned at the newel post on the landing and was out of sight, she took the last steps three at a time. Help? Oh, no, not me!
Arriving at Sean’s door—closed as always—she paused and drew a breath, steeling herself. Then knocked. “Sean?”
No answer, though she could hear music turned down low, beyond his barricade. “Sean, please.” He hated it if she opened his door without permission, but then, the other rule of his game was that he never seemed to hear her. “Sean!” She gritted her teeth and opened the door. “Sean, honey—”
“I told you, you’re supposed to knock!” he growled, glaring back at her from over his shoulder. He lay sprawled on his stomach on the bed, a book propped on his pillow.
“I need help,” she said, voice quivering with the effort to keep it level. She didn’t sound far from tears, she realized. Wasn’t. Oh, do I need help. This job had never been intended for one. That wasn’t the way she and Peter had planned it.
But now all she had was Peter’s son, glaring at her with Peter’s brown eyes. And none of Peter’s tenderness. “Please, Sean? I need eight more places set at the table, then some help in the kitchen.”
“Uh.”
She resisted the urge to demand if that meant yes or no. Hope for the best. “Thank you.” She shut the door gently.
Go ahead with the original barbecue? she asked herself as she hurried downstairs. No, the coals would take forever to reach grilling heat. But she couldn’t see cooking tomorrow’s steaks indoors tonight—what a waste. And Monday’s chicken was still frozen solid. Pasta, she decided, topped with peas, bacon and roasted red peppers. Garlic bread and salad. She shoved through the kitchen door.
Petra sat on the floor, face screwed to a tiny red knot of woe, beating on the linoleum with a wooden spoon in time to her hiccuping sobs. “Oh, sweetheart, did you miss me?” Dana scooped the baby up, kissed the top of her downy head, then settled her onto one hip and set to cooking one-handed. Peter, Peter, oh, Peter, if you could see us now…
CHAPTER THREE
LATE AS IT WAS, supper had been a success, Dana told herself as she paraded a steaming apple tart straight from the oven to the table. Sean followed glumly, carrying a bowl piled high with round scoops of vanilla ice cream. “So who wants pie?” she asked gaily amid the groans of delight and “oohs” of admiration.
Beyond the kitchen door, the phone rang. Dana glanced over her shoulder, her brows drawing together. It was well past nine, late for anyone to be calling. The phone rang again, and she bit her lip—Petra was sleeping in there in her playpen!
“I’ll get it,” Sean muttered, thumping his bowl down beside her.
By the time she’d served out dessert, he’d still not returned. So either the call was some tourist inquiring about vacancies at the Ribbon R, and for once Sean was handling it, or the caller had wanted her stepson in the first place.
Much as they needed to fill all the gaps in their summer schedule, Dana found herself hoping the call had been for Sean. At fourteen, he didn’t seem to get enough phone calls—didn’t seem to have any friends to speak of. Although, he confided in her so little, she supposed she’d be the last to know if he did. Still, a schoolmate calling Sean nights—she pictured a giggling thirteen-year-old charmer with a terrible crush and twice Sean’s social skills—now, that would be a welcome development. Dana ached for his loneliness, but so far she’d found no way to cure it. Peter would have known how—
Stop, she told herself firmly. After fourteen months, it was time she stopped calling on Peter.
Fourteen months or fourteen years or fourteen lifetimes, how could she not? She sat, smiling at her guests around the table, glad for the candlelight that turned tears in the eyes to sparkles.
WHEN ALL HER DUDES had left the table to wander sleepily from the main house and off up the hill to their cabins, Dana set to clearing away. A very long day, she mused as she entered the kitchen, arms loaded. “Sean?” she murmured to warn him, in case he was still engaged in conversation.
No Sean.
Dana frowned, staring at the phone on the wall beside the back door. Its receiver had been dropped on the counter. And—Her frown deepened. He’d left the door ajar.
Hand at her throat, she spun to the playpen—then breathed again at the sight of the small, blanket-draped lump in its center. At least the baby was still covered. The draft of cool mountain air would have done her no harm. Still…Does he ever think? She lifted the receiver to her ear, heard the dial tone, let out a tckk of irritation and hung it up.
What had caused him to bolt like that? The worst of it was, if she went after Sean and asked what was wrong, she knew exactly what he’d say. “Nothing,” she murmured, and grimaced.
Okay. So leave him alone, then. He’d be up in the loft of the barn, one of his hideouts when he wanted to escape her. Or else mooching along the Ribbon River—the snow-melt stream that stairstepped down the mountain, chuckling past the cabins, then the house, to spread out into glistening trout pools when it reached the valley meadows.
Dana turned back to her daughter. If I can’t help Sean, at least your wants are simple, my love. Gathering the sleeper into her arms, she buried her nose against Petra’s warm neck and, with eyes closed, simply breathed in her scent for a moment. Then she carried the baby softly up to bed.
HALF AN HOUR LATER she was rinsing the last pots and pans. Sean had yet to make an appearance, though a few moments ago she’d half thought she heard him thump through the front door. Had he returned that way to avoid her? But if that wasn’t him…Dana frowned out the window into the darkness. Go find him and coax him home? Or leave him be?
Something moved in the glass. She blinked, and then realized—a reflection from the room behind her; the dining room door swinging open. Sean stood in the doorway, one arm bracing the door wide, as silently he watched her.
The skin along her spine contracted in a rippling shudder. Not Sean, but someone much taller, wider, darker. Standing with the stillness of a predator.
Why didn’t I lock the door?
She hadn’t for the same reason she never did. Guests trooped in and out all day; Sean came and went; and this wasn’t Vermont, where she’d been raised, where everyone locked up. Out here in the West, you depended on distance to protect you. The guest ranch was four miles down a private road from the highway. No one came here by chance.
Behind her, the stranger moved at last, letting the door go and striding on into the kitchen. The blood thrummed in her ears. Dana chose her longest carving knife from the drainage rack, examined it for imaginary food specks, rinsed it, then, still holding it, let her right hand casually droop below the rinse water. She shut off the faucet and half turned.
“Oh!” She’d meant the word to deceive, but her shock was real. He was closer than she’d expected. Bigger.
And angrier—black, level brows drawn down over deep-set eyes.
“Wh-wh-what do you—” She stuttered to a stop. Did she really want to know what he wanted?
“Sean Kershaw. Where is he?” A low, gravelly voice, its steadiness somehow more deadly than any shout. No drama to this rage, but pure, cold intention.
“Sean?” Whatever this invasion was, it wasn’t what she’d thought. Still, it was bad—trouble. Teacher? she asked herself, and rejected the hope immediately. This was no indoor man. His face was tanned to the color of buckskin. The lines fanning out from the corners of his blue eyes spoke of years squinting in the harsh sun. “Wh-why do you want Sean?”
“That’s between him and me.”
The intruder turned a slow circle on his heels, scanning the kitchen as if Sean might be cowering in a corner. He wore boots, Dana realized, which was why he seemed so enormous. Though even in his socks he’d still top her five-three by nearly a foot.
Nevertheless, she let go of her weapon. She could no more imagine herself stopping this man with a knife than she could imagine stopping a train. “I’m afraid it isn’t,” she said coolly—to his back. He was striding back the way he’d come.
Hey! She goggled after him, then felt rage awaken as he retreated. “It’s considered polite to knock, you know!” she cried, hurrying to catch up.
“I knocked. You didn’t hear me.” He was already past the dining room, heading for the front door.
Good riddance, whoever he was! But no—her mouth dropped as he turned toward the stairs.
“He’s up there?”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Good.” He took the stairs two at a time without a backward glance.
Her baby! The hair bristled on her arms, at her nape. Dana flew up the steps, a primal humming sound in her throat. You stay away from my baby!
The door to Petra’s room stood wide. Dana flung herself through it and slammed into his back—“Ooof!”
“Huh?” he muttered absently. He’d stopped short just inside the room to flick on the light. She grabbed his elbows from behind and, with a little growl of despair—might as well try to uproot the oak banister!—she attempted to wheel him around and out. He glanced over his shoulder with a startled frown, then simply shrugged, breaking her hold. “Who’s this?” He nodded at the sleeping child.
“Mine,” Dana said flatly. She caught a fistful of the back of his shirt and tugged, and, lucky for him, he allowed himself to be towed backward out of the room. He hit the light switch as he passed it, then pulled the door quietly shut.
Dana let him go and swung around to put herself between him and Petra’s door. Chin up, she stared at him, breathing hard. “Get out of my house this…minute.”
Startling white against the tan, a reluctant smile flickered across his hard face. “Good for you,” he said simply, then turned away…
To open the next door down the hall—Sean’s room! Dana pressed a hand to her throat, swallowed, then charged after him. But—thank you, God—Sean hadn’t returned.
The stranger stood in the center of Sean’s bedroom, surveying the posters pinned to the wall—surly rock groups and a surfer shooting a blue-green pipeline at Maui. The desk piled high with books and camera accessories. Discarded shirts and jeans draped over the chair and the top of the closet door.
“Get out.” Dana bared her teeth. She supposed she could run uphill and ask her wrangler, Tim, for help, if by any miracle he was home on a Saturday night. Or run downstairs and phone the sheriff. But no way would she leave Petra to do either.
“You’re his sister, I reckon?” the man murmured, without turning.
“His stepmother.”
His dark head snapped around, and the blue eyes reassessed her, a quick head-to-toe appraisal. She crossed her arms over her breasts and glared back at him. Why the surprise? “And who the hell are you?”
“Rafe Montana.” He brushed past her and stalked out the door, headed for her bedroom.
“He’s not here,” she hissed, bracing her hands against the doorjamb and leaning after him. “Can’t you see?”
He stood there, looking down at the big brass bed that she’d shared with no man for fourteen months and thirteen days. The soft, rumpled down comforter that was no substitute for Peter’s living warmth.
“So where is he?” Montana turned to take in the rest of her room.
She felt his eyes touch the books stacked on her bedside table, testimony to all the nights she could not sleep; the vase of blue columbines on the wide windowsill; the bottles of perfume on her dresser, which she hadn’t uncapped for more than a year—and she felt as if he’d run his hands across her body. You trespasser. She stamped her foot to reclaim his attention. “I’m not about to tell you, when I don’t know what you want. When you barge in here like a—a maniac!”
“That’s about how I feel,” he said, swinging to face her. Two long strides and he towered above her. “I’m Zoe’s father.”
“Who’s Zoe?”
