Читать онлайн книгу «One True Thing» автора Marilyn Pappano

One True Thing
Marilyn Pappano
Ex-detective Jace Barnett's finely tuned instincts went into overdrive when he met his beautiful new neighbor with the fictitious past. His attempts to uncover her true identity met a dead end every time. She was a tantalizing mystery–one that spelled trouble for them both.It broke Cassidy McRae's heart to lie to the man who made her heart skip a beat from passion instead of fear. Something about Jace told her that he would protect her with his life–if she could only trust him enough to be honest. But though the truth could set her free, it might also get them both killed….


For the first time in three years, Cassidy was having a few hopes.
At least, she thought that was what the quivery, anticipatory, apprehensive feelings in her gut were. She’d been without hope for so long, though, she couldn’t be sure.
It would be foolish to start hoping again, she chastised herself. So what if she’d been safe and happy at Buffalo Lake? So what if she’d let other people into her life, even on the most superficial basis, for the first time in three years? So what if some of those people seemed to genuinely like her—like Jace? She couldn’t stay. Sooner or later, something would happen. Jace would get tired of asking questions and start snooping into the stories she’d told him. And sooner or later, he’d want to know why Cassidy McRae didn’t really exist.

One True Thing
Marilyn Pappano


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

MARILYN PAPPANO
brings impeccable credentials to her career—a lifelong habit of gazing out windows, not paying attention in class, daydreaming and spinning tales for her own entertainment. The sale of her first book brought great relief to her family, proving that she wasn’t crazy but was, instead, creative. Since then, she’s sold more than forty books to various publishers and even a film production company. You can write to her at P.O. Box 643, Sapulpa, OK, 74067-0643.

Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue

Prologue
“I wish you would reconsider.”
Jace Barnett didn’t look up from the desk he was cleaning out. He didn’t need to see to know it was Tim Potter who stood on the other side. The captain had tried to stop him when he left the disciplinary hearing, but Jace had gotten away without speaking to him. He’d known his luck wouldn’t hold until he left the building, but after the hearing, he just hadn’t given a damn.
“You caught a bad break, Jace—”
He shoved the drawer shut and began gathering the few items on the desktop. “A bad break? I didn’t do anything wrong, but the department hung me out to dry anyway because it was politically expedient.” He loaded the last two words with every bit of the disgust he felt for them, for the higher-ups who’d sat in judgment of him, for the machine that had sacrificed him for the chief’s greater good.
“I know,” Potter said, his tone as conciliatory as Jace’s wasn’t. “You got a raw deal, and I swear, we’ll make it up to you. But that’s going to be hard if you go crawling off with your feelings hurt.”
The only personal item remaining on the desk was a photograph taken two months earlier. The Barnett clan at Thanksgiving—his parents, Ray and Rozena; his uncle Del and aunt Lena; his cousin Reese and his wife, Neely. Jace stood in the middle with Amanda, his arm around her shoulders. She was gone now, part of the fallout of his “raw deal.” She’d liked cops in general and him in particular, but not after the suspension. Not once he’d become the target of a very public and negative witch-hunt. Last he’d heard, she was seeing some detective in Vice, and she was in love.
He hoped the vice cop had a more realistic understanding of what that meant than he’d had. He’d believed her—had even been planning to ask her to marry him once this mess was over. He’d been a first-class sucker.
He put the photo in his gym bag, then stood and met Potter’s gaze. “I’m not crawling off. I’m getting the hell out.”
“But, Jace— A couple more years and you can retire. You don’t want to give that up.”
Jace switched the gym bag to his other hand, scooped his coat off the desk and headed for the door. “Screw retirement. Screw the job. Screw you all.” Just like they’d screwed him.
He was almost outside when Potter caught his arm. “Forget the resignation, Jace. We’ll consider this a temporary leave of absence. Take some time to cool off and think about it clearly.”
He’d had nothing to do but think since they’d pulled him off the job weeks ago. He’d thought until he was sick of it, and he’d always reached the same conclusion. It was time to get out. If this treatment was the best the Kansas City Police Department could do for one of its wronged veteran detectives, he no longer wanted to be a part of it.
It had begun snowing while he was inside. He stopped, pulled on his coat and gloves, then opened the door. Frigid air along with a few flakes rushed inside as he looked back at Potter. “I’ve given this department my best for more than fifteen years—my dedication, my loyalty, my support—and the first time I need some of it back, you tell me to bend over and take it quietly, then get back to the job as if nothing happened. Well, Captain, it ain’t gonna happen. I’m outta here.”
He stepped out into the snow and headed for his truck. Potter stepped out after him, but didn’t speak. When Jace pulled away from the curb, the captain was still standing there, snow coating his gray hair and shoulders.
His fingers tight around the steering wheel, Jace headed for his apartment. He’d been a damned fool. All along he’d believed today’s hearing would exonerate him. The suspension, the investigation, being yanked off his cases—that was all routine whenever allegations of wrongdoing were made against an officer. He’d hated it, but he’d been positive everything would turn out in his favor. Hell, he’d done nothing wrong.
Except believe in the department and the people he’d worked with.
Except think that seventeen years of outstanding service counted for something.
Except assume that the truth actually counted for something.
Today he’d learned better. The police chief had a run for the governor’s office in mind, and justice for one detective stood little chance against his ambitions.
Seventeen years patrolling the streets, working Homicide and Sex Crimes and Narcotics, seventeen years of dealing with scum, working long hours for too little pay, facing danger more often than he wanted to recall, and this was the thanks he got. Sacrificed for the benefit of the chief’s public image.
He was only a few blocks from the apartment when he saw a car at the side of the road. Its right wheels were in a ditch, its headlights pointed up and illuminating the snow that darkened the afternoon. A woman stood near the rear of the car, huddled in her coat and looking helplessly at the vehicle. Automatically he eased his foot off the gas and switched on his blinker to pull onto the shoulder.
Deliberately he shut off the blinker and pressed the gas pedal down instead.
He was out of the help-giving business.
Forever.

Chapter 1
Slow as molasses in winter, the sun crept across the morning sky, bathing the landscape in bright light so harsh it leached the color from the day. Somewhere in the not-too-far distance, an overly excited canine burst into a frenzied fit of barking and…
Oh, jeez, that sucked. Frowning, Cassidy McRae gazed at the scene in front of her and tried again.
Fat clouds stirred overhead, casting lazy shadows over the forest. A hawk circled, its wings outstretched, its fingerlets rippling in the self-generated breeze, its eagle-eyed gaze searching…
An eagle-eyed hawk? Sheesh.
How about… In the distance, a buck appeared on the verdant lakeshore, its gaze alert and wary as he approached the water for a drink, his impressive antlers casting equally impressive shadows on the smooth glassy surface.
She snorted in much the same way her imaginary buck might. There were many things she couldn’t do in life, and it looked as if turning an evocative phrase was one of them. Calling herself a writer couldn’t make it so, any more than claiming to be a Martian would make that true.
For example, take the scene in front of her. A real writer would be able to describe it in such rich detail that her reader would feel the morning air, soft, still bearing the faint memory of the dawn coolness but growing heavy with the promise of heat. She would smell the clean fragrances of the woods, the lake, the wildflowers blooming in profusion in the tall grass, and she would hear the birdsong, the faint hum of insects and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore.
She, not being a real writer by anyone’s definition, would say the scene was rustic. Very country. More accurately, very un-citylike.
See? She couldn’t even decide for herself what it was.
Besides safe.
Buffalo Lake stretched out to the north and west, still and quiet in the morning. Trees lined the shore—blackjack oaks, cedars, an occasional maple and elm. A mimosa grew to one side, its leaves lacy, its blossoms about to burst into bloom.
The centerpieces of the scene were the cabins, one on each side of the narrow inlet and connected by an aging wooden footbridge. One cottage stood front and center, the other a hundred feet to the south and west. She ignored that one. It was empty, the real-estate agent had told her, and virtually identical to the one in front of her—the one that was going to be her home for the next however many days.
It had been used as a hunting cabin, the agent had told her on the drive out from Buffalo Plains the day before. Cassidy might not have the best imagination around, but she’d translated that into nothing fancy with her first look. Wide brown planks formed the siding, with a brown shingled roof. The window frames and door had once been painted turquoise, but had mercifully faded to a dull sky-bluish shade. There were two chairs on the deck that fronted the house—metal, with contoured seats and backs. At one time they had been a green as hideous as the turquoise, but years of relentless Oklahoma summers had left them dull and faded, too.
This was it. Home—for as long as she felt safe. In the past three years that feeling of safety had proved elusive at best, but maybe this time it would last a whole month. It would be a first, but if there was one thing she’d learned, there was a first time for everything. Love, loss, betrayal, deception, treachery…
The silence, heavy and complete, made her realize how long she’d been sitting in her car. With a fortifying breath, she pulled the keys from the ignition and climbed out.
In the thirty minutes since she’d left the motel in Buffalo Plains, the June heat had become a palpable thing. It created a sheen of perspiration across her forehead and down her arms, and made her clothes cling uncomfortably. She would pretend not to notice, she decided as she unlocked the trunk. She’d been pretending a long time. She was good at it.
Hands on her hips, she gazed into the trunk. Everything she owned was packed here. Her clothes. A laptop computer and printer. Linens and cookware. A few mementos. Every tiny thing that said Cassidy McRae existed, crammed into a space half the size of a small closet.
It was pitifully little.
She slung the laptop case over her shoulder, then hefted the largest of the suitcases before turning from the car. Immediately she froze and the suitcase slid from her fingers. When it landed on the uneven ground, it fell against her leg and leaned there.
A man stood at the near end of the footbridge, his gaze on her. His feet were bare. Heavens, most of his body was bare, except for a pair of faded cutoffs that rode low on his hips.
Mentally she clicked into author mode. The midday sun overhead gleamed on all that exposed skin, adding depth to the rich, warm brown and found highlights in the hair secured in a ponytail with a leather thong, despite the dull matte hue of the black. He looked hostile, she thought with a shiver of apprehension. Dangerous. Savage.
A hot blush that could compete with the blazing sun for intensity warmed her face at that last thought. She couldn’t say for certain, but thought it was probably politically incorrect to describe a Native American as savage, even if it was dead-on accurate. Those flinty black orbs devoid of emotion, that long, hard, lean, muscular body poised to attack, the complete and utter lack of emotion on his ruggedly handsome face….
She gave her head a shake to clear it. The physical description was accurate, if wordy, but the emotional part was way off. He didn’t look the least bit hostile, dangerous or savage. Truthfully he wasn’t so much standing there as lounging, not so much poised to attack as loose and relaxed, and his eyes, brown rather than black, showed a normal amount of friendly curiosity.
His gaze moved over her, shifted to the car, then back. Leaning against the railing with a confidence she wouldn’t display around the silvered wood, he folded his arms across his chest. “It’s a sure bet you’re not one of Junior’s kin,” he said in the accent she was quickly coming to associate with Oklahoma. There had been a time when she’d thought all Okies spoke like Reba McEntire, but two hours in the state had convinced her otherwise. It wasn’t really a drawl, not a twang, not as readily identifiable as a Southern accent or a New Englander’s. It was pleasant, she decided, sounding of the heartland, of cowboys, ranchers, farmers and good-natured, small-town folks.
“Who’s Junior, and how do you know I’m not related to him?”
“Junior Davison. He owns that cabin.” He nodded toward the house behind her. “And I know you’re not related because all the Davison kin have an unfortunate tendency toward red hair, freckles and fat.” His gaze skimmed over her again. “You don’t.”
No, her hair was blond—this week, at least—her skin was freckle-free and her metabolism made short work of the calories she took in. The rest of her life might have been shot to hell, but at least she had a few things to feel grateful for.
Having a neighbor wasn’t one of them.
She stooped to pick up the suitcase again. “No, I’m not related to Junior.”
She made it only a few feet before he spoke again, this time with a hint of a challenge. “Then who are you?”
It was a legitimate question, no matter that it made her stiffen. If the situation were reversed and a complete stranger was moving into the house next to hers, she would at least want to know his name. As remote as these cabins were, she would probably want to know a hell of a lot more than that about him.
Still, when she turned back to answer, it was grudgingly. “Cassidy McRae. I’m renting Junior’s place.” She paused, not wanting to give the impression that she was neighborly, but she was moving in next door to a complete stranger in a remote location. The least she needed to know was what to call her only neighbor for three miles. “Who are you?”
“Jace Barnett. I live there.” He gave a jerk of his head to the house behind him.
“Really. The real estate agent said that place was empty.”
“No matter how often she insists she knows everything, she doesn’t.”
So he was familiar with Paulette Fox. The woman had spoken with great authority on every subject that came to mind, as if every word had come straight to her ear from God’s mouth. Why, she’d lived her entire life in Buffalo Plains and Heartbreak, the wide spot in the road some twenty miles south, and there wasn’t a soul in the county or a thing going on that she wasn’t intimately familiar with.
Except for the rather major fact that the isolated, neighbor-free cabin she’d promised Cassidy was neither as isolated nor neighbor-free as she’d thought.
“Actually, to be fair to Paulette, I just moved out here a couple of months ago. I haven’t seen her since then.”
“Lucky me,” Cassidy murmured.
He pretended not to have heard. “Not that she wouldn’t have lied to you if it meant renting this place. No one’s stayed there in years—not since Junior’s kids put him in the nursing home.”
“Too bad for Junior.”
“Nah, he doesn’t know the difference. His mind’s gone. He doesn’t even know his kids when they come to visit—which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
He was probably right, especially when those same kids had seen fit to put their father in a home the minute he’d become trouble. She couldn’t imagine doing such a thing to one of her parents…if she had parents. At least, in the real world.
Shoving away the thought—the regret—she glanced at Jace. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got work to do.” When he showed no intention of returning to his side of the bridge, she deliberately went on. “That’s why I’m here. Not to relax or make small talk with the neighbors. To work.”
Her first lie of the day. There had been a time when the only lies she’d told were harmless little fibs. I love the gift… Yes, that dress looks wonderful on you… The cake was to die for… No, you don’t look like you’ve gained five pounds. Those days were long gone. Now the number of lies she told was limited only by her exposure to people to tell them to. Ask the same question ten times and she would give ten different answers. That was how she lived her life these days.
Correction—that was how she lived, period.
“What kind of work?” Friendly curiosity again.
It shouldn’t have annoyed her, but it did. She wasn’t the type to become chummy with someone just because they happened to live in the same building or on the same block. It had taken some time, but she’d learned not to become chummy with anyone. Leaving wasn’t such a big deal if there was no one special to leave behind.
“The kind that requires a great deal of privacy. Nice meeting you,” she said in a tone that made it clear she’d found it anything but nice. Then she turned toward the house as if she hadn’t just been rude to a friendly stranger. She didn’t look back as she let herself in, and didn’t peek out the window on her way to deposit the computer on the dining table and the suitcase in the bedroom. She did glance toward the bridge when she returned to the car for another load and saw that he’d gone, but not far. He was sitting on his deck in a metal chair that matched her own, a bottle of water in hand, and watching her. She pretended he wasn’t there.
It was harder than it sounded.
Within an hour she’d unloaded and unpacked everything. Cheap aluminum pots and pans, cheaper plastic-handled cutlery, an off-brand boom box with a box of CDs. White sheets and pillowcases, a yellow blanket and a blue print comforter. Clothes that came from Wal-Mart, Kmart and Target, shoes from Payless. Her days of upscale retail experiences were long over. She’d been a world-class shopper, and some days she missed it a lot.
Other days, when she got overwhelmed by the enormity of the life that had been taken from her—twice—she couldn’t care less about shopping.
With nothing left to do, she walked through the cottage, out of the bedroom, past the bathroom and into the living room/dining room/kitchen. “Well, there’s three seconds out of my day,” she said aloud. Only eighty-some thousand to go.
Finally she let herself wander to the window. There was no sign of Jace Barnett. Good. Life was safer without the complication of people.
And lonelier, her inner voice pointed out.
She turned away from the window and gazed around the room. Her monthly two hundred dollars’ rent included furnishings—sofa, chair, coffee and end tables, dining table with three chairs, bed and dresser. All of it was early-impoverished American, all of it ugly enough to make her wonder what in the world the people who’d created it had been thinking. It was a far cry from the leather, stone and luxurious fabrics of her old home, and for one instant it made her want to cry. It was so shabby. Her life was so shabby.
This wasn’t the future she’d envisioned for herself twelve years ago, or five, or even three. She’d intended to follow in the footsteps of every blessed female in her family for generations. She’d planned to be so middle-class, married-with-kids, minivan-PTA-soccer-church-on-Sunday average that she would bore to death anyone who wasn’t just like her.
Odd how easily a little curiosity, greed and bad luck had changed everything.
Her sigh sounded loud and lonesome in the big room, and galvanized her into action. She fixed herself a glass of instant iced tea, then sat at the dining table and opened the laptop. “I am a writer,” she announced as the machine booted up. “I am a writer.”
When she was a yoga instructor, she’d practiced affirmations daily, but it was easier to believe I can do this when “this” was nothing more complicated than the Salute to the Sun routine. Writing a book was a whole other business, and one she knew little about.
“Failure is just another chance to get it right,” she murmured as she clicked on the icon for her word processing program. She had a million such lines. Work is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration… Whether you think you can or you can’t, you’re right… You can’t win if you don’t play the game… Today is the first day of the rest of your life… If you can dream it, you can do it.
Not one of them helped her when faced with a blank screen. She thought maybe a candy bar would help, so she got up and rummaged through her purse until she found one. Music might help, too, so she detoured past the boom box and put in her favorite Eric Clapton CD. Finding the screen still blank, she decided a few games of Free Cell might get her creative juices flowing.
Two hours later, the screen bore a heading that read Chapter 1 and nothing else. Oh, she’d typed a few lines, then mercifully deleted them. After the third wipeout, her fingers seemed to pick out keys on their own.
I am a writer. I AM a writer. I am a WRITER.
“So write, damn it!” she muttered under her breath.
Frustrated, she pushed away from the table and went to stare out the window, refusing to let her gaze stray to the southwest. The bulk of the lake lay to the north, the rental agent had told her. This section was just God’s afterthought, so it had the peace and quiet Cassidy had told her she needed.
Except for Jace.
She wondered why nosy Paulette didn’t know he was living next door. Why would he want to live all the way out here? Of course, she’d passed houses along the dirt road on her drive out from Buffalo Plains that morning, but mostly they were ranch or farm houses. Naturally someone who earned his living off the land would live here, too.
But the lake was surrounded by thousands of acres of woods. No pasture for livestock, no fields for crops and, as far as she could tell, no other means of support. She would certainly never choose such a place if she had to drive into town to a job every day.
The idea of going to a job every day—the same job—made her melancholy. She’d done that for a lot of years and had never really appreciated it until she’d found herself working for a week here, ten days there—if she was lucky, three weeks someplace else. As soon as she’d learned a job and started to fit in, she’d had to move on. Finally she’d quit fitting in. This time she didn’t intend to even try. She would pass her time here at Buffalo Lake just as she’d passed it at a hundred other places and, when it was up, she would move on, just as she’d moved on from everywhere else.
Just once, though, she would like to settle down, to call the same place home next week and next month and next year. She would like to think in terms of forever instead of right now, to make friends, to have a life…but that was impossible. Like the shark, if she stopped moving, she would die.
But knowing that didn’t ease her longing. It made it a little more bearable, but nothing, she was afraid, would ease it.
Besides death.

Though Jace had gotten his first official job when he was fifteen, he’d been working years longer. His parents had believed that taking care of the house and the livestock was a family responsibility, so he’d started pitching in as soon as he was old enough. He’d worked his way through college, taken three days off after graduation to move to Kansas City, then gone straight to work for the department.
He liked not working for the first time in his life. Not having to get up at five-thirty to run before work, not spending more time at the shooting range each week than he did on dates, not dealing with lowlifes and lawyers, not carrying a gun with him everywhere he went. He liked not being a target for scorn and disdain, or for nutcases with weapons, and not spending more time frustrated than not.
He liked being a bum, sleeping until noon and not seeing a solitary soul unless he wanted. He’d told his parents, Reese and Neely so repeatedly. They didn’t believe him, but that didn’t make it any less true. They thought he was burned out. Brooding. Bored. In serious need of a badge and a gun.
Burned out? Maybe. Brooding? Nah, he’d gotten over what happened in Kansas City. Now he was just bitter. In need of another cop job? Never.
What about bored?
His gaze shifted to the window and the Davison place. Cassidy McRae had pulled up out front around ten-thirty. It was now six-fifteen, and he’d spent way too many of those hours watching the place, even though he hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of her passing a window. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have other things to do, like…clean house. Take Granddad’s old john boat out on the lake and catch some fish for his mother to fry. Drive into town and replenish his supply of frozen dinners. Mow the little patch of grass out front that he hadn’t yet managed to kill.
But why be productive when he could kick back on the couch and watch the neighbor’s place during commercials on TV? Being curious took little energy and less incentive and, as a bum, he considered the less energy and incentive expended, the better.
Besides, she was the first woman he’d really looked at since Amanda had moved out of his apartment and his life. She was the first woman he’d noticed as a woman, with all the possibilities and risks that entailed—the first who had reminded him of how long he’d been alone. Granted, he didn’t know anything about her—whether she was married, where she was from, what she did, whether she was aloof because she was shy or preoccupied or disagreeable by nature.
What he did know was minimal. That she drove a red Honda with Arizona tags and a heavy coat of dust—a two-door that blended in easily with thousands of other little red two-doors on the road. There were no bumper stickers, no college affiliations or radio station advertising on the windows, no American flag or novelty toy flying from the antenna, no air-freshening pine tree hanging from the inside mirror. It was about as unremarkable as a car could get.
He knew she was far from unremarkable. She was pretty, slender, five-eight, maybe five-nine, with short blond hair and pale golden skin. He hadn’t gotten close enough to identify the color of her eyes, but hoped they were brown. He’d always been a sucker for brown-eyed blondes, especially ones with long legs and full lips and an innocent sensuality about them.
He knew next to nothing, but affairs and relationships and almost-engagements had been built on nothing more. As long as she wasn’t married, a cop or too needy, he could enjoy having her next door. He didn’t lust after married people, he’d had enough of cops to last a lifetime and enough of people who needed something from him to last two lifetimes.
He couldn’t help but wonder, though, what had brought her to Buffalo Plains, and why she was staying all the way out here. She’d said she was here to work, but people didn’t come to Buffalo Plains to work. They came for reasons like Neely’s—hiding out from an ex-con who’d thought killing her was fair punishment for his going to prison. Or her sister, Hallie Marshall, escaping a life that had become unbearable. Or Hallie’s stepdaughter, Lexy, who’d run away from home to find the father she’d never known.
But to work? When any work she could do over there in Junior’s cabin could just as easily be done someplace else? Someplace better?
Maybe she was hiding, escaping or running away, too.
He wouldn’t even wonder from what.
He was debating between SpaghettiOs and a sandwich for supper when the sound of an engine drew his gaze to the window. Reese parked his truck under the big oak nearest the cabin, then he and Neely got out, each carrying a grocery bag. By the time they reached the deck, Jace was opening the screen door. He stood there, arms folded over his chest. “Hey, bubba. Don’t you know it’s rude to drop in on someone without calling first?”
“We tried to call,” Reese replied, “and all we got was voice mail. You have your cell phone shut off again, don’t you? And you don’t check your voice mail, so you leave us no choice but to drive all the way out here.”
In spite of his scowl, Jace wasn’t really pissed. Reese was his only close cousin, and they’d been raised more like brothers. They’d been buddies and partners in crime since they were in diapers. They’d gone to school together, kindergarten through twelfth grade, and attended the same university. When a shoulder injury had ended Reese’s pro baseball career, he’d gone into law enforcement in part because Jace was doing it.
Now Reese was the sheriff hereabouts…and Jace was a disgraced ex-cop.
Though he hadn’t invited them in, Neely nudged him aside and crossed the threshold. “We come bearing mail and food, and we’re staying for dinner.” Retrieving a rubber-banded packet of letters from the bag, she handed them over, then continued to the kitchen.
Stepping back so Reese could enter, too, Jace thumbed through the mail sent in care of his folks. Bills for the necessities of life—electric, gas, cell phone, car insurance. He didn’t have to pay rent because he and Reese had inherited this place when their grandfather died. He’d never relied on plastic much even in Kansas City, and had even less use for it holed up out here. His only other expenses were groceries and an occasional tank of gas, plus his one luxury—satellite TV. A man had to do something day after day.
Reese left the grocery sack in the kitchen, then helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator—fair enough, since he’d brought them the last time he’d visited. After brushing his hand against Neely’s shoulder, he returned to the living room and dropped into a chair. “What have you been up to?”
Jace shrugged. “The usual.”
“Exciting life,” Reese said, his tone as dry as the Sahara in summer.
“I’m not looking for excitement.” Truth was, he wasn’t looking for anything, and he wasn’t sure that would ever change. For as long as he could remember, all he’d ever wanted to be was a cop. Since he couldn’t be that anymore, he didn’t have a clue what he could be.
“You give any thought to coming to work for the sheriff’s department?”
“Nope.”
“You give any thought to anything?” Now there was an irritated edge to Reese’s voice that had appeared somewhere around the tenth or twentieth time they’d had this conversation. Reese thought Jace had had plenty of time to get his life back on track, and he wouldn’t accept that Jace’s only plans for the future dealt with sleeping, eating and fishing. He didn’t believe Jace could walk away from being a cop.
The hell of it was, Jace couldn’t even accuse him of not understanding, because Reese had been through it before. All he’d ever wanted to do was to play baseball, and he’d lived the dream—made it to the big leagues—then had it taken away from him.
But Reese had found something else he wanted—two other things, Jace amended with a glance at Neely. The only thing Jace wanted was for life to go back to the way it had been a year ago. And since he couldn’t turn back the clock…
“You looking for an answer that doesn’t suck or just ignoring me?” Reese asked.
“I think about a lot of things.” But being a cop again wasn’t one of them.
Reese watched him for a moment, his gaze narrowed, then apparently decided to drop the matter for the time being. “Whose red car is that out there?”
“Her name’s Cassidy McRae. She’s renting Junior’s cabin.”
“Oh, yeah, I heard about her from Paulette.”
“What did you hear?” Jace could find out anything he wanted to know about his neighbor with a little effort. But he knew from experience it was better to keep Reese’s mind on something other than him, or the conversation would inevitably drift back to old discussions they were both tired of having.
“Not much. She’s from Alabama, she’s a writer, and she’s working on a book. Wanted someplace quiet where she wouldn’t be bothered.”
Alabama, huh? That wasn’t a Southern accent he’d heard this morning. But living someplace at the present time didn’t mean she’d been born there. He’d lived nearly half his life in Kansas City even though he’d been born and raised right here in Canyon County. Most of the people he knew had gotten where they were from someplace else.
What kind of book was she writing and why had she come all the way to Oklahoma to do it? Surely she had an office at home where she wouldn’t be bothered. And why did she have Arizona tags on her car if she was from Alabama?
He let the aromas from the kitchen distract him for a moment. Tomatoes, onions, beef and cheese…his mother’s lasagna. For an Osage married to an Okie, Rozena made damn good lasagna. That for supper, along with leftovers for tomorrow, was worth putting up with Reese’s bitching.
“Want to eat inside or out?” Neely asked, standing in the kitchen doorway with plates and silverware. When both men shrugged, she made the decision by heading for the door. She returned for a clean sheet from the linen closet, disappeared again, then came back once more for a bowl of salad. “Why don’t you invite your neighbor over for dinner?”
Oh, yeah, that would go over well with Ms. I’m-not-here-to-make-small-talk-with-the-neighbors. Dinner with said neighbor, his cousin the sheriff, and his cousin-by-marriage, who would need only one look at her to start visions of matchmaking dancing through her head.
“She’s not particularly neighborly.”
“Oh, she’s probably just a little shy or busy getting settled in. But she has to eat, and we have plenty of wonderful food. Go on. You be neighborly. Show her how it’s done.” Then Neely gave him a suddenly sly look. “Unless there’s some reason you don’t want us to meet her. Is she pretty?”
Matchmaking, he reminded himself. She’d tried it a dozen or so times when they’d both lived in Kansas City, with often painful results. She nagged him as much as Reese did, just in a gentler fashion, about giving up the vegetating and getting back to living, and she thought a romance with a pretty woman the perfect solution to his problem.
So he lied. “She’s old enough to be our mother. This tall.” He held his hand about four feet above the floor. “Round. Wears thick-soled shoes and nerdy glasses. Not my type.”
Apparently she thought she’d been more subtle because the look she gave him was reproving and the words she said an outright lie. “I’m not trying to get you a date, Jace. I’m talking about inviting a woman who’s new in town to share the dinner your mother so generously made for us. Do you have a problem with that?”
Not trying to get me a date, my ass. She’d tried to set him up with the checker at the grocery store just last week. Two weeks before that, it had been her secretary’s visiting niece, and the month before that, it had been the new waitress at Shay Rafferty’s café in Heartbreak. Neely wanted to fix his life, whether he was willing or not.
Scowling, he rose from his chair. “Jeez, she bosses me around in my own house. All right, I’ll invite her to dinner, but she’s gonna say no.”
“But you’ll feel better for having made the effort,” Neely sweetly called after him.
After checking out McRae that morning, he had eventually put on a shirt, but he’d never made it to shoes. He winced as he stepped on a rock on her side of the bridge, then again when he walked onto the deck. Where his was sheltered by the cabin from midafternoon on, hers got full sunlight until dusk. The weathered boards were uncomfortably hot underfoot.
From across the inlet came the sound of his screen door banging—Neely making another delivery to the patio table—so he deliberately stood at an angle that would block her view of the door, then knocked. The Unplugged version of “Layla” was playing inside—the only sound at all until suddenly the door opened a few inches. Cassidy McRae looked none too happy to be disturbed.
He wouldn’t mind being disturbed a whole lot more.
She had changed from this morning’s jeans and T-shirt into shorts and a tank top in shades of blue. Her feet were in flip-flops edged with a row of gaudy blue flowers, and her toenails were painted purplish blue. She would have looked depressingly young if not for the glasses she wore. The blue metal frames added a few years to her baby-owl look and made her eyes look twice their size.
She pushed the glasses up with one fingertip. “Yes?”
Brown eyes, he noticed. Dark, chocolatey brown, staring at him with only a hint of impatience that made him remember his reason for bothering her. “My mother sent dinner—the best lasagna outside of Italy. Want to join us?”
“Who is ‘us’?”
“My cousin Reese and his wife Neely. He’s the sheriff here, and she’s a lawyer over in Buffalo Plains.” He wasn’t sure why he’d offered the extra info. To assure her that they were respectable, which might make him respectable by association?
She glanced in the direction of the kitchen. Looking over her shoulder, he saw the laptop open on the table, the word processing screen filled with text. Her book? He wondered what it was about, how she sat and pulled coherent thoughts and sentences from her brain and transferred them to the screen. He would rather face a short drunk with a bad attitude than sit at a computer all day trying to be creative.
“I’m working,” she said at last when she looked back. “I shouldn’t stop.”
There—that was easy. He could accept her reply and go home. Reese and Neely wouldn’t see her and find out he’d lied in his description. Neely wouldn’t get that evil gleam in her eye and, with her none the wiser, he would save himself a lot of future hassle.
But instead of saying goodbye and leaving, he shifted to lean against the jamb. “You have to eat.”
“I’ve got food.”
“Already cooked and ready to dish up? The best lasagna in the English-speaking world?”
For a moment her clear gaze remained fixed on him, as if she was wavering. Then she glanced at the computer again and went stiff all over. “I appreciate the invitation, but I can’t accept. I have to get back to work.”
Definitely no Southern accent. No accent at all, in fact. Had she consciously gotten rid of it, or had she lost it by living in a lot of places?
“Okay. It’s your loss. You won’t find such good company for…oh, a few miles, at least, the food can’t be beat, and there’s probably something incredible for dessert.”
“Sorry,” she murmured.
He was supposed to feel relieved. Neely and Reese would return home, none the wiser about his neighbor. He wouldn’t have to spend the evening hiding any hint that he thought she was gorgeous from prying eyes or have to deal with Neely’s inevitable attempts to get them together. He wouldn’t have to explain why he’d lied when describing her.
But mostly what he felt was disappointment. It was no great loss, no matter what he’d told Cassidy. Sitting across the table from a pretty woman would have been a nice change from the way he’d spent his last one hundred and eighty-plus evenings. Being tempted to spend his night differently would have been damn nice. But not tonight, apparently.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, he turned, walking backward for parting words. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”
She gave no response—no nod or murmured thanks or sorry. She simply stood there and watched.
He was on his own side of the bridge before she finally closed the door.

Chapter 2
She watched him leave, unaware of the wistfulness that marred her face. How she would have liked to walk across the bridge with him, to sit down at the small round table and enjoy the cool evening air, the savory aromatic food and the company of strangers. She was tired of being alone, tired of having no friends, tired of having to be on guard all the time. She was tired, tired, tired, tired.
Besides, she hadn’t had lasagna in a long time.
Wednesday morning found Cassidy stretched out on the couch, the television turned on but the sound muted. The picture was filled with snow and the static made the audio unbearable—and this was the channel that came in the best. She’d noticed the satellite dish on the neighboring cabin’s roof with some envy while washing the breakfast dishes. Too bad she couldn’t run a cable over there and tap into his better reception, but that would be illegal. Besides, she had no clue how to do such a thing. Inserting a plug into an outlet was the extent of her electronic abilities.
On the dining table, the laptop made a faint hum as the fan came on. The screen was dark, but if she walked over and moved the cursor, the WordPerfect screen would pop up with the same lines that had been on it last evening when Jace Barnett had knocked. She’d been lying on the sofa then, too, trying to read a magazine but finding concentration too difficult to come by. She had tiptoed to the door, turned down his dinner invitation, then watched until he’d crossed the bridge. After closing the door she’d peeked through the blinds as he’d joined the man and woman on the deck. They had talked and laughed and eaten…and she had watched. Like the little match girl in the story her mother had read her long ago, on the outside looking in.
Except she was inside looking out. More like a prisoner locked away for her crimes. But the crimes that made her a prisoner weren’t her own. She was the victim, but she was getting all the punishment.
Unable to stand the flickering TV any longer, she surged to her feet, shut it off, then went to the window. The other cabin was still and quiet. She’d heard a boat putt past more than an hour ago, sounding as if it were coming from that way. If Jace Barnett was out on the lake, there couldn’t be any harm in her spending a little time outside in the sun, could there?
She got a sheet from her bedroom, a pair of sunglasses and a book, and headed outside. After another trip back in for the boom box and a glass of water, she spread the sheet over the grass, settled on her stomach and started reading to the accompaniment of B. B. King.
It was a peaceful, easy way to spend a morning, with the sun warm on her skin, the soft lap of the water against the shore, the buzz of bees among the wildflowers. Trade the sheet on the ground for a rope hammock and the glass of water for lemonade, and she would be as contented as a fat cat drinking cream in a sunbeam. As it was, she was almost contented enough to doze off. If she wasn’t careful, she would wake up with the sunburn to end all sunburns, and then what would she do?
Gradually she became aware that the music had stopped. The sun’s pleasant warmth had become uncomfortably hot, and the bees’ buzzing had been replaced by slow, steady breathing…and it wasn’t her own.
She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the lush embossed floral depiction an inch from the tip of her nose. She had dozed off, using the novel for a pillow, knocking her sunglasses askew. All the moisture had been sucked out of her skin that was exposed to the sun and redeposited in places that weren’t, dampening her clothes and making her feel icky.
And there was that breathing.
She lifted her head, sliding the glasses back into place, and saw her neighbor sitting a few feet away. He wore cutoffs, a ragged Kansas City Chiefs T-shirt and tennis shoes without socks, and he looked as if he hardly even noticed the heat. His own shades were darker than hers, hiding his eyes completely, but she didn’t need to see them to know his gaze was fixed on her. The shiver sliding down her spine told her so.
“Working hard?”
Hoping the embossed cover wasn’t outlined on her cheek, Cassidy slowly sat up, rubbed her face, then combed her fingers through her hair. “Doing research,” she said, holding up the book, then laying it aside.
“Checking out the competition?”
She shrugged.
“So you write—”
“Watch it,” she warned.
“I was just going to say—”
“I know what you were going to say. It was the way you were going to say it.” She picked up her glass, its contents lukewarm now, and took a sip. “‘So you write romance novels.’ Or ‘So you write trashy books.’ Or ‘So you write sex books.’ Wink, wink, leer.” Her gaze narrowed. “I didn’t tell you I write anything.”
“Reese did—my cousin. He got it from Paulette.”
Cassidy was half surprised the real estate agent had remembered long enough to pass the information on. The woman had shown little interest, other than to remark that she was going to write a book someday. Everybody was, Cassidy had learned in her short career.
“Paulette says you’re from Alabama.”
“California,” she lied without hesitation.
“You have Arizona tags.”
“It’s on the way here from California.”
He didn’t seem to appreciate her logic. “I can see confusing Alabama and Arizona, both of them starting and ending with A. But Alabama and California?”
“They both have ‘al’ in them. Besides, when people talk, Paulette listens for the silence that indicates it’s her turn to speak, not for content.”
“That’s true. She does like to share her vast knowledge with everyone.”
“Sounds like you know her well.”
“She’s my cousin, three or four times removed.”
It must be nice to have family around. She had relatives, too, but she hadn’t seen them in six years. No visits, no phone calls, no letters. It was worse than having no family at all, and so she pretended that was the case. Fate had decreed she should be all alone in the world, and there was no use trying to fight it.
“Then you’re from around here,” she said, then shrugged when his gaze intensified. “You said yesterday you’d just moved out here a while ago.”
“I was staying with my folks outside Buffalo Plains.”
“Why move?”
“Because I’m too old to live with my parents any longer than necessary.”
Why had it been necessary? she wanted to ask. Had he lost his job? Gone through a lousy divorce that left him with nothing? Been recovering from a serious illness? Offhand, she couldn’t think of any other reasons an able-bodied adult male would move in with Mom and Dad.
But instead of asking such a personal question, she asked another that was too personal. “Do you work?”
Again his hidden gaze seemed to sharpen. “Nope. I occasionally help Guthrie Harris with his cattle, or Easy Rafferty with his horses, but that’s about it.”
“Easy Rafferty. What a name.”
“You heard of him?”
She shook her head.
“He used to be a world champion roper until he lost a couple fingers in an accident. Now he raises the best paints in this part of the country. He could teach that horse whisperer guy a few things.”
A rodeo cowboy. She knew nothing about them—had never been to a rodeo or gotten closer to any horse than passing a mounted police patrol in the city—but they were popular in the books boxed up inside. So were Indians of all types, including cowboys. Though she had no trouble picturing Jace Barnett in faded Wranglers, a pearl-snapped shirt and a Stetson, something about the image didn’t feel quite right. She had no reason to think he was lying to her—other than the fact that she usually lied herself—but the man was more than a part-time cowboy.
“Are you researching this area?”
She was still imagining him in jeans and scuffed boots, with a big championship buckle on his belt. The question caught her off guard, leaving her blinking a couple of times until her brain caught up. Research, the area, her book—remember? Her reason for being here?
“Oh…no…not really. I just wanted someplace quiet to write.”
“And you had to come halfway across the country to find it? Why not just rent a place close to home?”
He obviously didn’t believe her, and that made color rise in her face. “Oh…well…I mean, the book is set in Oklahoma, but I—I did most of my research from home. On the Internet, you know. But I needed a break from California, and I like to do the actual writing on location.” She shrugged carelessly. “I know it sounds strange, but there are as many different methods of writing out there as there are writers. A lot of us are strange.”
“Huh.” He put a wealth of skepticism in that one word, but didn’t pursue it. “Where do you live in California?”
She gave the first answer that came to mind. “San Diego. Actually, one of the suburbs. A little place called Lemon Grove.” She’d been to San Diego once—so many years ago that she remembered little about it besides the beach being closed due to a sewage spill down the coast and the fun they’d had at Sea World. If a visit to Lemon Grove had been a part of the trip, she didn’t remember it, but it was an easy enough name to recall.
“You live there alone?”
“Yes.”
“What about your house?”
There was a reason she didn’t encourage casual conversation when she found herself with neighbors, she thought with a tautly controlled breath. Too many questions, too many chances for missteps. Not that the consequences were likely to be deadly, but she never knew.
“I gave up my apartment and put everything in storage,” she replied, deliberately injecting a distant tone into her voice. “Finding a new place to live is easy.” She’d done it more times in the past few years than any sane person should have to endure.
She stood, slid her feet into her thongs, then carried the book and her glass to the deck. Returning, she shook out the sheet and started to haphazardly fold it. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
Jace showed no intention of leaving. Instead he leaned back, his arms supporting him, and stretched his legs out. “Writing must be hard work.”
“More for some than others.”
“How long have you been doing it?”
“A while.”
“Have you sold anything?”
“A few books.” After all, a writer who could travel fifteen hundred miles to write a book in a rented lakefront cabin had to have some source of income, right? And it had to be a source that didn’t require eight-to-five workdays in an office somewhere, and to pay well enough to justify the expense of a temporary cross-country move.
“How many is that?”
She shrugged.
“Fewer than five? More than ten?”
With a roll of her eyes, she pretended to count mentally, then said, “Seven.” It was everyone’s lucky number, and though her life had been utterly devoid of luck the past couple of years, she could pretend like everyone else, couldn’t she?
“Seven. Lucky number.”
She smiled thinly. “Seventy will be luckier…but if I don’t get to work, I won’t even see eight.”
She intended to march into the house then, but he finally moved to get up and she couldn’t resist watching. His legs were long and muscular—runner’s legs, though she couldn’t imagine him summoning up enough energy to jog from her house to his—and he moved with the grace and ease she’d sorely needed for ballet class when she was seven. Instead she’d been the clumsiest student Miss Karla had ever taught and, after falling off the stage during a recital, she had gladly hung up her slippers.
When he was on his feet, he stretched and his T-shirt rode up to display a thin line of smooth brown skin above the narrow waist of his cutoffs. Her fingers tingled to see if it was as warm and soft as it looked. She knotted them into a fist under the cover of the sheet.
“The invitation for lasagna still stands,” he remarked.
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Her stomach chose that moment to remind her that breakfast had been skimpy and a long time ago.
He grinned. “Are you sure about that? Mom makes it all from scratch—the noodles, the sauce and the garlic bread on the side—and it’s even better the second day.”
She hadn’t had lasagna in ages. She didn’t like the frozen stuff, and cooking for just herself was an unnecessary reminder of how alone she was. Granted, a ham sandwich would fill her stomach just as well and had the added benefit of no conversation to stumble through. But she’d had a ham sandwich for lunch the day before, and for supper last night, and would have one for supper tonight. Besides, she could control the conversation. She’d been doing it long enough, giving out only what information she wanted to give, manipulating it to go in the directions she wanted. She’d just gotten clumsy this morning because he’d literally caught her sleeping.
He was rocking back on his heels, waiting for an answer. She eyed him warily. “What’s for dessert?”
“Strawberry pie with whipped cream.”
Cassidy stifled a groan. She loved strawberries. When she was a kid, every Saturday in strawberry season, the family had driven to a pick-your-own berry farm and filled quart containers by the dozen. They had always managed to eat at least three quarts on the way home, where she’d helped her mother make strawberry shortcake, pie and preserves.
“I suppose it can’t hurt this once,” she said reluctantly. It wasn’t smart, but it wouldn’t be the dumbest thing she’d ever done, either. Sure, he was a stranger, but he was a local. He had family here. He didn’t know her from Adam. He had some doubts about her stories, but so what? He was a cowboy when he worked at all. What did it matter whether he believed her? Who was he going to tell? The horses and cows?
Or his cousin, the sheriff? the little voice whispered.
So what? she stubbornly repeated. There was no law against lying…well, unless you were doing it under oath. Or profiting from it. Or doing it to stay out of jail. But what she was doing—lying to strangers about things she had a right to keep private…it might not be ethical, but it wasn’t illegal.
“I’ll put the lasagna in the oven. Dump your stuff inside, then come on over,” Jace said.
She watched until he stepped onto the bridge, then went inside with a sigh. The sheet went on a shelf in the tiny linen closet, the glass and the boom box on the kitchen counter. She shut off the computer, then went to the bathroom to wash up. The face reflected back at her in the mirror was pale with pink spots on the cheeks—and the flush came from a source much closer than the sun. Her hair looked as if she’d forgotten to comb it in recent memory, and her eyes…
She’d read an article on age-progression computer programs that said the one single feature that never changed, no matter a person’s age, was the eyes. You could change the color with contact lenses—she’d done that a time or two—and enhance them with makeup, but the basic shape stayed the same. Hers seemed terribly different to her, but of course it wasn’t the shape. It was the shadows. The wariness. The distrust. The fear. Did Jace the Cowboy recognize any of that, or did he, like most people, simply see a pair of unremarkable brown eyes?
Truthfully, she didn’t want to know. If he was perceptive, she would have to keep her distance from him—which she intended to do anyway, of course. But doing it by choice was better than doing it because she had to.
She changed into clothes that weren’t damp from sunning—tailored and cuffed shorts in khaki, a cotton shirt in olive drab, sand-colored sandals. The shirt was tucked in, the shorts belted with a matching olive belt. She combed her hair, added a touch of makeup, then frowned at herself. Would he think she’d dressed up for him? Maybe she should switch to denim shorts and a tank top, or jeans and a T-shirt. Maybe…
Still scowling, she shut off the light and left the bathroom. She stopped at the dresser long enough to slide a few things into her pocket—a tube of lip gloss, her keys and a small round canister—then she headed for the door.

The lasagna and bread were heating in the oven, the pie chilling in the refrigerator. The windows and door were open and a box fan set in the lakeside window blew cool air through the room.
Jace leaned against the kitchen counter, sucking down his third bottle of water for the day. He was that rarity among cops, as well as Barnetts—a man who didn’t drink. He’d run too many miles to stay in shape, had worked too many years at a job where the concept of being off duty was a joke. Trouble could find a cop at any time, and he’d wanted his senses unimpaired when it happened.
He glanced at the clock while waiting for Cassidy to put in an appearance. He’d been home ten minutes—more than long enough for her to carry a few things inside, then walk across the bridge. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d locked herself inside instead. She’d obviously had misgivings about coming over.
She obviously had something to hide.
Okay, maybe not so obviously. Maybe, even after six months off the job, his instincts were as sharp as ever. He was used to people being less than honest with him. It gave him an itchy feeling down his spine and he’d been wanting to scratch the whole time they’d been talking. He couldn’t say she’d flat-out lied to him, but she’d certainly been evasive, and wondering why came as naturally to him as breathing.
But it wasn’t his job to find out. In fact, his only job was to do a lot of nothing. To kick back, relax and stay out of trouble. He was free to take advantage of whatever entertainment he could find along the way, but that was the extent of it. No poking around in anyone’s background. No ferreting out inconsistencies or solving mysteries. No getting involved in anyone’s troubles but his own.
A board in the middle of the deck creaked and he shifted his gaze to the screen door. An instant later Cassidy appeared there, looking lovely and unsure, as if she might bolt back home at anytime.
“Come on in,” he called as she raised her hand to knock.
She stepped inside, smiled faintly in greeting, then glanced around. The layout of the cabin was identical to hers—living and dining room stretched across the front, kitchen in back on the left, bedroom and bathroom on the right. He hadn’t been inside Junior’s place in years, but knowing the Davisons, he would bet the same ratty old furniture was still in residence.
That was the only way his cabin was better than hers. He’d brought some of his own stuff—a leather couch, an oversize armchair, a couple of bookcases—and borrowed the bedroom furniture and dinette from his parents. The table was an oval oak pedestal, with four ladder-back chairs, and the bedroom set was his grandmother’s antique mahogany.
He’d added rugs, too, and a television, DVD and stereo system, but he hadn’t unpacked a single thing for the walls. Photographs, a couple of meritorious commendations he’d received, gifts, mementos…anything that would personalize the space and reveal anything about the past seventeen years was packed up in his folks’ attic. It could all stay there until it rotted.
What would her space reveal about her past? Someday he would have to wangle an invitation into her cabin to find out.
“Lunch will be ready in a few minutes,” he said as her gaze finally reached him. “What would you like to drink?”
“Water will be fine.”
“That’s all? I’ve got beer and pop, too.”
She gave a slight shake of her head, then came to stand at the table, her hands gripping one of the ladder-back chairs. He figured her goal was to look as if she was casually resting her hands, but her fingers were clenched so tightly that the knuckles turned white. Why so nervous? He wasn’t likely to throw her to the floor and have his way with her, not when it meant burning the lasagna. Force wasn’t his style. Persuasion was way too much fun.
But maybe force had been someone else’s style. Maybe that was why she was cautious and evasive.
But it wasn’t his business, remember?
He got two bottles of water from the refrigerator, then set the table. As the timer went off, he pulled the lasagna from the oven and stuck the foil-wrapped bread inside, then asked, “What’s your book about?”
She’d been looking out the window. Now her gaze jerked back to him. “My…my book?”
“The one you’re writing. The one that’s set here in Oklahoma. What is it about?”
“Oh…well…” Her fingers tightened even more around the chair back. “It’s…it’s a love story.”
“Most romance novels are, aren’t they?” he asked dryly.
“Yeah. Of course.”
Using insulated mitts, he carried the lasagna pan to the table, then returned with the bread. After he slid into the nearest seat, she slowly pulled out the chair she’d had a death grip on and sat. He waited until they’d served themselves, then gave her time to take a bite before asking, “So? What’s it about?”
“It’s about…” When she looked up, her face was warm but her eyes were cool and her full lips had flattened into an aloof line. “I’m really not comfortable discussing it. If I tell people the story in detail, then there’s not much purpose in writing it—is there?—because I’ve already told it.”
He wasn’t asking for a scene-by-scene description. A general overview would have been fine, something like “a story of a spoiled Southern belle during and after the Civil War” for Gone With the Wind. He didn’t need names, subplots or even the highlights.
“Do you publish your books under your own name?”
This time she didn’t look at him, but kept her gaze focused on the plate in front of her. “No, I don’t. You were right—this is excellent lasagna. Is it an old family recipe?”
“Someone’s old family, but not ours. Mom came across it years ago, made a few changes and has been fixing it ever since.” Just as bluntly as she’d changed the subject, he changed it back. “What’s your…aw, hell, I can’t think of the word. Your alias?”
For a moment he thought she might laugh, but the twitch at the corners of her mouth faded. “Alias?”
“You know, your fake name. Cassidy McRae aka what? Jeez, don’t you ever look at Wanted posters?”
“No, I can’t honestly say that I do.” She paused. “Do you?”
“I used to. A lot.”
“Looking for anyone in particular?”
“Not for pictures of myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. Trust me, if I was wanted by the cops, Reese would turn me in so fast I wouldn’t know what hit me.”
“Your own cousin?”
“He’s a cop first, my cousin second.” That wasn’t entirely true. Reese would never break the law, but he would bend it a little if circumstances warranted it. Sometimes that was the only way to see justice done.
“Then what’s your interest in Wanted posters?”
He wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t particularly want to admit that he’d been a cop himself. With his luck, she would probably have a lot of questions he wouldn’t want to answer. The few writers he’d met in the past, mostly reporters, were filled with them. “Curiosity,” he said with a shrug. “I watch America’s Most Wanted, too.” Once again he abruptly shifted direction. “You never told me what your alias—”
“Pen name.”
“—is.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Maybe I want to pick up a couple of your books and see what they’re like.”
“They’re very hard to find. Most of them are out of print.”
“Then you could loan me some copies.”
Her smile was quick and uneasy. “I don’t have any. Sorry.”
“Oh, come on…you don’t have a single copy of your own books?”
“Well, of course I have some, but not with me. They’re back home in my office in San Diego.”
“Lemon Grove,” he corrected.
She grimaced. “Hey, it’s all one big city.”
“And they’re in storage, with the rest of your office.”
Her face turned almost as red as the sweet tomato sauce that oozed between the layers of noodles. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Everything’s in storage.”
His back was itching again. He shifted in his chair, rubbing against the spindles. If he checked Directory Assistance for Lemon Grove, California, would he find a listing for Cassidy McRae? Instinct said no, but that wouldn’t mean anything. Most women who lived alone in big cities had unlisted numbers. But if one of his cop buddies checked the utilities and didn’t find a recent account in her name…
It would prove she’d lied about where she lived. So what? She was an author, and no doubt had fans. For some people it was a short step from fan to stalker. If some stranger was buying his book and thought he was making some sort of connection, he would want personal information such as where he lived kept private, too.
As he pushed his plate away, he slumped back in the chair and fixed his gaze on her. “You’re not married.”
She shook her head.
“Any kids?”
“No.” That was accompanied by a faint regret. It wasn’t as if it was too late. She couldn’t be more than thirty, thirty-two. She still had time to bring a dozen or more kids into the world before Mother Nature said no more.
“Family?”
Her smile was faint. “Don’t have one.”
“No parents, brothers or sisters?”
She shook her head again. “No aunts, uncles, cousins or grandparents, either. I’m an only child from a long line of only children.”
“No family. Jeez.” Then… “Want some of mine?”
She pushed her plate away, too, having cleaned it. “Your parents live outside Buffalo Plains, your cousin is the local sheriff, and your cousin four times removed sells real estate around here. Who else is there?”
“Reese’s folks live in town. My mom’s parents are about forty miles from here, and her two brothers and three sisters all live within an hour or so. There are a lot of cousins, some great-aunts and -uncles, some in-laws and out-laws. Last time the family got together, there were about seventy of us.”
“That’s nice.”
It was nicer when he lived in another state and didn’t see them that often, he was about to retort but stopped himself. There was something wrong with complaining about too much family to a woman who didn’t have any. Instead he agreed—more or less. “Yeah. It can be.”
“Are you married?”
“Nope. Never have been.”
“Ever come close?”
He thought of Amanda and the diamond ring he’d been considering for a Valentine’s Day surprise. The few people he kept in touch with in Kansas City never volunteered any news about her and he never asked. “Nope.” It wasn’t a complete lie. They hadn’t been nearly as close to a lifetime commitment as he’d thought.
“Any kids?”
“Not without being married first, or my mother would tan my hide.”
“That’s an old-fashioned outlook.”
“She’s an old-fashioned mother.” He thought about digging up another question, then stuck to the subject. “She believes parents should be married before they start having children, that honesty comes first in a relationship, and that marriage shouldn’t be entered into lightly. You don’t have to stay in a bad marriage, but you damn well have to do everything you can to keep it from going bad.”
What if he had married Amanda? What if politics hadn’t derailed his career or had done so six months after the wedding? Just how bad could that marriage have gotten? Very bad, he suspected. Bitter-divorce-and-protective-orders bad. His mother would have been incredibly disappointed in him for making such a lousy choice.
So one good thing had come out of the mess. Amanda had saved him the hassle of a divorce down the road and spared him Rozena’s disappointment.
“Your mother’s a smart woman.” Cassidy slid her chair back, then held out her hand for his dishes. Stacking them with her own, she carried them into the kitchen.
He followed with the lasagna pan. “How long does it take you to write a book?”
“It varies.” She turned on the water in the sink, waited for it to heat, then put in the stopper and squirted in dish soap.
“Give me a ballpark figure. A week? A month? A year?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes three months, sometimes six, sometimes longer. Some days I want to tell the story. Other days, I can’t force myself to get within ten feet of the computer.”
“Did you always want to be a writer?”
“Not really.”
“How long have you been doing it?”
“A few years.”
Just like her earlier answer that she’d sold a few books. He’d pinned her down to a number then, and sometime he might pin her down on this, but not now. Instead he put the last square of lasagna in the refrigerator and took out the pie and a tub of whipped cream. “Where do you get your ideas?”
She scowled at him over her shoulder before turning her attention back to the dishes. If she scrubbed that plate any harder, she was going to take the pattern right off of it, he thought, and wondered why she was so tense. “They come to me in my sleep,” she said, clearly annoyed.
Another evasion, if not an outright lie. He was beginning to think “evasion” was Cassidy McRae’s middle name.
Too bad he was no longer in the business of finding out why.

Chapter 3
She had regrets—a lot of them. More than any ninety year old who’d squandered her life should be burdened by on her deathbed, and she was nowhere near ninety. Looking into his amazingly handsome face, with his sharp black eyes, his straight nose, his stubborn jaw and his full, sensuous, sensitive-looking mouth, and lying through her teeth to him was only the most recent in a long string of regrets.
He believed in honesty between a man and a woman—had said so in no uncertain terms, and yet she had lied to him.
And all the regrets in all the world wouldn’t stop her from doing it again.
Cassidy directed her sharpest scowl at herself. She didn’t regret lying to Jace any more than she regretted lying to anyone. There was nothing special about him, nothing that separated him from the countless people she had deceived in the past.
Except for the fact that he was handsome as sin.
And more tempting than chocolate.
She hadn’t looked twice at a man in thirty-five-and-a-half months— No, that wasn’t true. She looked two and three and four times, searching faces, praying she didn’t see any particular face. She looked at men as a potential threat to her freedom, her safety, her very life.
Jace was the first one she’d looked at as just a man. Someone to be attracted to. Someone to share a meal with. Someone to stir her long-sleeping hormones back to life.
Someone she couldn’t even think about getting involved with. He had that honesty thing going for him. She had a million lies and counting. He belonged here, with his family all around. She didn’t belong anywhere. He was an easy-going, unsophisticated part-time cowboy. She was a woman for whom people would kill.
All those things were among her regrets.
And hopefully, when she left here, Jace Barnett wouldn’t be.
Avoiding him would be the best way to prevent that. No matter that he was handsome and friendly and his mother made the best strawberry pie she’d ever had. No matter that she had been—to borrow a line from Hank Williams—so lonesome she could cry. She needed to stay away from him. He asked too many questions and she didn’t have the right answers. He was suspicious of her—she had seen it in his eyes yesterday at lunch. Maybe he wouldn’t do anything with his suspicions.
Or maybe he would.
The hell of it was, it was her own fault. All she’d wanted was a little time to do nothing. Peace and quiet in a place where she wouldn’t have to worry about fitting in, having friends or meeting enemies. She’d wanted to be as alone in her private little world as she was in the world at large.
She shouldn’t have lied to Paulette Fox, but the woman had been so damn nosy, wanting to know why Cassidy had chosen Buffalo Plains, refusing to believe that anyone would come to the shores of little Buffalo Lake for a vacation. After all, the lake offered no amenities beyond a few picnic tables. There was no resort, no place to rent a boat or Jet Ski, no charmingly quaint vacation cottages, not even a convenience store for a quick run. The only cabin for rent had no telephone and lousy television reception and depended on a window air conditioner to keep it cool.
You can tell me, honey, the woman had wheedled with a gleam in her eyes and a confidential air. What are you really here for?
Cassidy had thought of the paperback in her purse and the lie had found its way out before she’d even thought about it. I’m a writer. I’m looking for a quiet place to finish my book.
It wasn’t the first time she’d lied and wouldn’t be the last. Besides, how hard could masquerading as a writer be? It wasn’t as if she needed a degree to hang on her wall. She skimmed the author biographies in every book she read—and for the past few years that number was in the hundreds. There were doctors, teachers and lawyers writing, sure, but there were also housewives and mothers and high-school graduates.
And what did a writer do? She sat around dreaming up stories, then put them on paper. Cassidy sat around dreaming up stories—that sounded so much better than making up lies—and she could pretend to put them on paper. In fact, she’d decided to actually try her hand at writing. Lord knew, she had a story to tell.
There was just one small problem—at least, it had started out small. It seemed to get bigger with each passing day.
What she didn’t know about being a writer would…well, would fill a book.
And Jace was reaching that conclusion, too, if he hadn’t already.
Suddenly too antsy to sit still, she exited the Free Cell game, then stood and stretched before grabbing her car keys and purse. She needed a few groceries—she never wanted to eat another ham sandwich as long as she lived—and she could certainly benefit from some fresh air and a change of scenery.
After locking up, she climbed into her blisteringly hot car, backed out, then headed down the narrow dirt lane. The air conditioner was turned to high, all the windows were down, and the wheel was so hot that she steered using only the tips of her fingers, but she felt damn near giddy at the prospect of getting out and seeing people.
She was not cut out for a life of isolation.
A few hundred yards from her cabin, another narrow lane forked off to the northwest. She’d paid it little attention the times she’d been by it, but now she knew it led to Jace’s house—partly because it was logical, and partly because he was sitting there in a dusty green SUV, half in his driveway, half in the road, watching her approach.
Her car was small enough she could ease around him, give a neighborly wave, then drive on—and let him drive in her dust for the next ten miles—but she politely slowed to a stop.
Instead of driving on, he got out of the truck and leaned in the passenger window. “Where are you off to?”
“The grocery store.”
“Me, too. Why don’t you park your car and ride with me?”
She wanted to coolly say no, thanks, almost as much as she wanted to agree. She needed conversation, to hear other voices, and his was a damn easy voice to listen to.
But he asks questions, her own inner voice reminded her, and he wants answers. She could be satisfied talking to the clerk at the grocery store, couldn’t she?
Oh, sure, that would be a great conversation. How are you today? Will that be all? You want paper or plastic?
Apparently her reluctance was obvious, because he grinned a killer grin. “Aw, come on…I bet you don’t even know where the closest grocery store is.”
“The only grocery store is in Buffalo Plains.”
He made a sound like a game-show buzzer. “The Heartbreak store is five miles closer. I’ll even treat you to lunch at the Heartbreak Café.”
Heartbreak. Sounded like her kind of town, she thought with a touch of irony and rue. And lunch…in a restaurant…with people. Sounded too good to pass up. And it wouldn’t hurt, would it? Not just this one time?
“Let me take my car back.”
With another grin, he lifted his hand in a wave, then returned to his truck.
It took some effort, but she managed to turn around without getting too far off the road. On the brief drive to the cottage, she tried to talk herself into reneging, but when she got out of the Honda, she didn’t blurt out an excuse, rush inside and lock the door. No, she climbed into the cool interior of the SUV, buckled her seat belt and glanced at Jace.
He wore gym shorts in white cotton with a gray T-shirt, worn-out running shoes and no socks, and his black hair was pulled back in a ponytail again. As a general rule, she didn’t like to see men with hair longer than her own, and she couldn’t help but think he would be a hundred times handsomer with it cut short. Even so, he was still incredibly hot. Heavens, she was hot just looking at him.
She adjusted the vent so the cool air blew directly on her, then crossed her legs. Deciding it would be in her best interests to start—and therefore hopefully control—the conversation, she asked, “How big is Heartbreak?”
“A better question is how little is it. I believe Paulette likes to refer to it as ‘a wide spot in the road.’”
“Yeah, I heard that phrase from her a couple of times.”
He grinned. “You don’t need to spend much time with Paulette before she starts repeating herself. She can be annoying, but at heart she’s a good person.” At the end of the lane, he slowed almost to a stop, then turned east onto the dirt road. “Heartbreak…let’s see…. It has an elementary school, middle school and high school, though if the number of students keeps dropping, they’ll have to close them and bus the kids to Buffalo Plains. There are a couple of cafés, a hardware store, a five-and-dime, a grocery store, a part-time doctor and lawyer, a post office—oh, and a boot-and-saddle maker. If you want to take home a one-of-a-kind souvenir, you should see her. There’s also a couple of small junk stores—pardon me, antique stores—and a consignment store. That’s about it.”
“All the necessities of life,” she said with a faint smile.
“If you’re not looking for anything fancy. If you are, you have to go to Tulsa or Oklahoma City.”
At the intersection where they would have turned left to go to Buffalo Plains, he turned right instead, then asked, “Get any writing done today?”
So much for controlling the conversation. “A little.”
“After you write the book, what happens then?”
She stared out the side window for a time, some part of her brain registering pastures dotted with cattle, occasional houses, barbed wire fences and acres of the scraggly trees Paulette had identified as blackjacks. Finally, when the expectant silence began to gnaw at her nerves, she gave him a narrowed look. “Didn’t we agree yesterday that I didn’t want to talk about my career?”
His laughter was warm and unexpected. “Oh, honey, we haven’t agreed on anything yet except that my mom’s a good cook. Besides, you said that about the book you’re currently writing. I’m just asking about the process in general.”
“Why?”
He gave the same answer he’d offered in regard to the Wanted posters. “I’m curious.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t met many writers before, and most of them were newspaper or TV reporters.”
She grabbed the chance to turn the conversation back on him. “Now you’ve made me curious. How does a small-town Oklahoma cowboy manage to run into so many newspaper and television reporters? They do many stories on branding and castrating around here?”
Now it was his turn to think before he answered. “Nope, not many. But if there’s a reporter around, they seem to lock in on me. Must be my charm.”
Must be female reporters, Cassidy thought dryly.
“Okay, we’ll drop that part of the discussion. Can you at least tell me what kind of research you did before coming here?”
Absolutely not. She’d chosen Buffalo Lake the same way she’d chosen every other place she’d temporarily lighted in the past three years—spread out a map of the U.S., closed her eyes and pointed. “Just general stuff,” she fibbed. “Climate, topography, industry.” Please don’t ask, she silently prayed, but of course he did.
“And what did you learn about the climate?”
In the outside mirror she watched dust clouds swirl behind them. Looking ahead she saw heat waves shimmering in the air. “That it gets hot in summer. Damn hot.”
“And?”
She gave him another of those narrow gazes. “Why are you quizzing me? I’m not a student and you’re not my teacher.”
“I bet I could teach you a few things,” he said, his voice huskier than normal. Then he gave her a long, intimate look. “And you could teach me a few.”
Her throat had gone as dry as the road they were traveling. She couldn’t think of a response, though, until he turned back to the road, when the air rushed out of her lungs and she sank back against the seat.
As if the moment had never happened, he gestured toward the house ahead on the left, identifying it as Easy and Shay Rafferty’s place, where he helped out occasionally with the horses. Farther down the road on the right was Guthrie and Olivia Harris’s ranch, where he helped out occasionally with the cattle. Two young girls were playing in the yard. One, dangling upside down from a tree branch, waved so enthusiastically Cassidy feared she might fall. The other, sitting primly on a quilt underneath the tree, raised her hand without so much as a wiggle of her fingers.
“That’s the Harrises’ twins. Elly’s the tomboy and Emma’s the prissy one,” Jace remarked. “Which were you as a kid?”
“I wasn’t prissy.”
“Did you play with dolls?”
“Of course. That’s what little girls do.”
“Let me rephrase that—how did you play with dolls? Did you play house with them, like Emma, or cut them open and stuff them with firecrackers to see if you could blow them to bits, like Elly did last week?”
She’d played house, but she wasn’t about to admit it. Instead she folded her arms over her chest and pressed her lips together.
“That’s a clear enough answer,” he said with a chuckle. “Did you ever climb trees? Collect spiders? Make a pet of a mouse and keep him in your pocket? Or did you like to sit in the air-conditioning with your dollies and books and not get dirty?”
“I climbed trees,” she said in her defense. And she had, too. At least, a time or two. Until she’d fallen from an unstable limb and broken her arm when she was eight. After that, she’d kept her feet on the ground.
“And the rest?”
“I kill spiders and the only mouse I want around is attached to my computer.” Her expression slid into something that felt remarkably like a pout. “Besides, what’s wrong with staying cool and clean and reading?”
He laughed again, not a chuckle this time but a full-throated laugh. “So you were prissy. Of course, I could tell just by looking at you.”
“How?” she challenged.
“Because girly girls always grow up to be such womanly women.” Again that low, husky tone. Again the dry throat, the air rushing from her lungs, the general weakness spreading through her body.
Spending the next few hours with him couldn’t hurt, could it? she had convinced herself back in the Honda. Not just this one time.
She would have snorted in disdain if she could have found the breath. He was a dangerous man, and his relentless questions were only the half of it. Questions she could avoid. Emotions, though… She couldn’t escape them no matter how she tried. Feelings in general were okay. Feelings for other people weren’t. Those were the rules that governed her life.
The sooner she remembered and acted on that, the better.

Jace parked in downtown Heartbreak, climbed out of the truck and waited on the sidewalk for Cassidy. As she got out and walked toward him, her gaze was swiveling from side to side and around. Looking for anything in particular or just trying to take the whole town in at once?
He’d never tried to see his hometown through someone else’s eyes. It was so familiar to him that he wasn’t even sure he saw it through his own eyes, but rather through the eyes of the kid who had once lived here. He usually didn’t notice that the buildings looked pretty shabby, that the sidewalks were cracked, that half the buildings on the next block were boarded up. He didn’t pay attention to the paint peeling from old wood or the crack that had extended through the insurance agency’s plate-glass window for as long as he could remember. He looked and saw home.
What did Cassidy see?
He gestured toward Café Shay—really the Heartbreak Café, owned by Shay Rafferty—and they started in that direction. Just two days ago he hadn’t wanted Reese and Neely to see Cassidy, and now here he was taking her to lunch in Gossip Central. Somebody would be on the phone to his mother before they made it to the grocery store across and down the street.
But he didn’t even consider taking back the offer.
The bell over the door announced them and several dozen pairs of eyes turned their way. About half the customers greeted him before speculatively looking back at Cassidy.
Hell, they probably wouldn’t even be through with lunch before someone called his mom.
They’d just claimed the only empty booth when Shay showed up, balancing a chubby-cheeked baby on one hip. She set down two glasses of water, then two menus. “Hey, Jace, how’s it going?”
“Not bad. Shay, Cassidy.” He gave the briefest introductions possible, then reached for the baby, who came to him with a toothless grin and a drool. “And this is Liza Beth.”
“That’s her name today because she’s in a good mood,” Shay said, “but we’re thinking of changing it to something like…oh, I don’t know. Difficult. Tough.”
“Nah, she’s too pretty for a silly name like that,” he responded, directing his words to the baby who was gazing with great interest at his finger closest to her mouth. “Besides, one unconventional name per family is plenty.”
Shay smacked him on the shoulder. “Who are you calling unconventional? Easy or me?” Then she smiled across the booth. “It’s nice to meet you, Cassidy. Are you visiting from K—”
Jace shot her a look and she smoothly shifted. “Or are you making your home here?”
“I’m just here for a while.”
Cassidy gave him a vaguely curious look over Liza Beth’s head, no doubt wondering what Shay had been about to say. To distract her, he announced, “Cassidy’s a writer. She’s finishing up a book.”
“Really?” Shay’s blue eyes brightened. “That’s so cool! What kind of book?”
A flush flooded Cassidy’s cheeks, so Jace answered for her. “She writes romance novels. The one she’s working on now is set in this area.”
“How wonderful. What is the name and when will it be out?”
“I—I don’t—” Cassidy broke off to take a sip of water. “I haven’t settled on a title yet, and I don’t know when…when it will come out. Probably never, if the guy next door doesn’t stop interrupting my work time.”
Shay grinned at Jace. “That would be you, I presume. He’s a terrible distraction,” she said to Cassidy. “Wants attention all the time. Just like Liza Beth.”
“Hey, we resent that, don’t we, Liza?” He moved the baby to cradle her in his lap, and she snagged his finger at last, guiding it into her mouth. “I’d’ve been perfectly happy not having any attention last winter, but it didn’t keep any of you away, did it?”
“What happened last winter?” Cassidy asked.
Shay opened her mouth, looked from Cassidy to him, then closed it again and smiled. “I believe I’ll take my child and send the waitress over to take your order.”
“Nah, let Liza stay—at least until the food comes. She’s happy enough for the moment.”
“You don’t have to say it twice,” Shay said with a laugh. “Cassidy, nice meeting you. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
She left and a young waitress appeared. Without looking at the menu, Jace ordered a double cheeseburger and onion rings. Cassidy studied the menu for a moment, then asked for the lunch special. Then she folded her hands together on the tabletop and gave him a raised-brow look.
He ignored it as long as he could before faking a grouchy look of his own. “What?”
“What happened last winter?”
“Not much. Oklahoma winters can be really mild or really cold—but then, you know that, having researched the climate.” He let a little good-natured sarcasm slide into his voice on the last words. “We had a couple ice storms that shut things down for a day or two, and we had a tornado in January. That’s something you don’t see a lot of.”
She continued to look at him, her expression unchanging.
“They have tornadoes where you come from?”
“Occasionally.”
“In San Diego? I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Lemon Grove,” she corrected him. “And none of that answers my question. What happened with you last winter?”
He leveled his gaze on her, as steady and measuring as hers was, then smiled coolly. “I’ll make you a deal. You answer all those questions of mine you’ve danced around, like what your pen name is and what your book is about and what kind of research you did, and I’ll tell you about last winter.”
She smiled, too, a bright smile that involved her whole face without bringing one bit of warmth to it. “It would serve you right if I agreed.”
He shrugged.
“Fair enough.” Then she lowered her gaze to the baby. “She doesn’t look anything like her mother.”
“Nope. She’s the spittin’ image of Easy, except she’s prettier and has all her fingers. He’s only got seven.”
“Jace! You shouldn’t joke about that.”
“Hey, I’m just repeating what he said. Besides, I think we’re distantly related. I’m mostly Osage and he’s mostly Cherokee, but a few generations ago somebody from his father’s side married somebody from my mother’s side.”
“So you’re probably tenth or twelfth cousins.”
He grinned. “It still counts as family. At least, when you want it to.”
“You like kids,” she commented, her gaze lowering to the baby.
He looked down, too, at Liza Beth’s dark skin, eyes and hair, her fat cheeks and the mouth that managed a grin in spite of her gnawing on his finger. “I like most people.” Even some of the people he’d arrested over the years. Civilians tended to think that cops and crooks were mortal enemies, but that wasn’t always the case. Sure, most bad guys weren’t anxious to go to jail, and some would do anything to avoid it, but a lot of them didn’t hold grudges. They were doing their jobs and he was doing his. No hard feelings.
“Then why were you trying to avoid attention last winter?”
He gave her a steady, censuring look. “We agreed, remember? If you don’t answer questions, I don’t. No fair trying to sneak around the back way.”
Her only response to his rebuke was a nod, then she glanced at Liza Beth again. “Why aren’t you married and raising a houseful of kids?”
“I always figured I would be, but…” He finished with a shrug, then studied the faint wistfulness in her expression. “You want to hold her?”
Her hands flexed and came up off the tabletop, a prelude to reaching for the baby, then she caught herself. She dropped her hands into her lap, put on a taut smile and shook her head. “I keep my distance from kids.”
“Why? You don’t like them?”
“I like them fine—at a distance.”
There was that itch again. Jeez, why lie about liking kids? It was about as inconsequential as things got in the bigger scheme of things. About the only time not liking kids mattered would be when she already had them. Otherwise, so what?
Maybe she regretted not having any, so she pretended not to like them. Maybe she couldn’t have any, so pretending eased the pain. Maybe she had one or two or three, and had lost them for some reason, so it was guilt she was easing.
His wondering was interrupted by the waitress with plates of food. She set them down, then reached for the baby. “Her daddy just came in to get her, so I’ll take her now.”
“See you, sweetheart,” Jace said, brushing a kiss to Liza Beth’s forehead before handing her over. The kid didn’t want to give up her pacifier, and sucked hard enough to make a pop when his finger pulled free. Immediately she screwed up her face as if to cry, then she caught sight of her father and was all smiles again. How could anyone not want to brighten a kid’s world like that just by walking into it?
He waited until Cassidy had taken a bite of the chicken-fried steak that was the day’s special, then asked, “What made you pick Buffalo Lake for your vacation—uh, work?”
After studying him a moment she levelly replied, “I told you—the book I’m working on takes place here.”
“Here, specifically? Or in the general area?”
Her only response was a shrug.
“The state’s got some really nice resorts, places where you could find the privacy and quiet you want, along with all the conveniences and a few luxuries…but not around here. I’m having a hard time picturing you sitting in your apartment in Lemon Grove, saying, ‘I think I’ll rent a run-down cabin on the shore of a small lake no one outside Canyon County, Oklahoma, has even heard of.’”
As he expected, she chose to answer the wrong part of his comment. “The cabin’s not run-down. It’s rustic.”
“You’re playing with words.”
A smile flashed across her lips, then disappeared. “That’s my job.”
And his job was finding out the truth…at least, it had been. For the first time since the disciplinary hearing last winter, he was tempted to do a little cop work. As temptations went, though, it was a mild one, just a passing thought that he could find out her truth if he wanted. If he cared enough. Since he neither wanted nor cared…
She surprised him when, after a moment of paying proper attention to the potato-and-cheese casserole accompanying the steak, she actually offered him some information. “You’re right. I didn’t leave Lemon Grove with the intent of coming to Buffalo Lake. I knew I was coming to Oklahoma, but I didn’t decide on an exact destination until I got here.”
“Why here? Why not Shangri-La or one of the other resorts?”
“Do you know how much rent the Davison family is charging for the cabin? Two hundred bucks a month. Furnished. I can spend six months there for the cost of—what?—maybe a few weeks at one of those resorts. Besides, conveniences and luxuries are just a distraction I don’t need.”
“That’s redundant, isn’t it? Or is there a distraction you do need?”
Her face colored, making him wonder if she was remembering Shay calling him a distraction. Wants attention all the time, she’d said, which wasn’t exactly true. He didn’t want everyone’s attention—just Cassidy’s at the moment—and he didn’t even want that all the time.
Just more than was wise.
Without waiting for an answer that he really didn’t think was forthcoming, he polished off the last bite of his burger, then drained the last of his pop. “What do you do on a hot summer day in Lemon Grove?”
“I sit in my air-conditioned office and work.”
“All the time? You don’t go to the beach or into the mountains? No drives north to L.A. or south to Tijuana?”
“I’m not an outdoor sort of girl. What can I say? I’m dedicated to my job.” That much was one-hundred-percent true, Cassidy reflected. Her job was staying alive, and she was committed to it twenty-four hours a day.
She took one last bite of tender, battered steak, then pushed the plate away. As if alerted by some sixth sense, the waitress immediately appeared. “Did you save room for dessert? Manuel baked up some dewberry cobblers this morning.”
Though she didn’t know what dewberries were, Cassidy was tempted. “Cobbler” was enough to do that to her. Peach, cherry, blackberry—she wasn’t finicky. She loved them all, especially warm from the oven with a scoop or two of vanilla ice cream melting over them. But she’d stuffed herself on chicken-fried steak, potatoes and creamy cucumber salad and didn’t have room left for one single berry.
“None for me,” she said politely.
“How about a couple servings to go?” Jace suggested, giving the waitress a smile that made her melt like the ice cream Cassidy had been fantasizing about.
While the woman left to get his cobbler, Cassidy let her gaze slide around the restaurant. The fixtures showed a lot of hard wear, much like the customers. Even so, it held a certain homey appeal. It was a place to meet friends, to catch up on news, to enjoy good food at good prices, to connect with other people. Once upon a time she’d had favorite restaurants where she’d been greeted by name, where the waitresses knew her favorite dishes, where she’d connected.
She missed that.
“You ready?”
Refocusing her attention, she saw Jace was holding a foil pan and their ticket and was about to stand. As she slid to her feet and slung her purse over one shoulder, he dropped some ones on the table, then gestured for her to precede him to the cash register near the door. There she withdrew her wallet, but he gave a shake of his head.
“I can pay for my own lunch.”
“It was my invitation.” He handed a twenty to the waitress, pocketed his change, then followed her outside.
Though the grocery store was only half a block away, they drove. Jace parked in the shade of a huge oak, then glanced back across the street when he got out. “I need to make one stop,” he said when she joined him at the back of the truck. “Why don’t you go on in, and I’ll catch up with you.”
“Sure.” She was not disappointed, she told herself as she crossed the parking lot. She always did her grocery shopping alone and there was no reason to mind it today.
Always shop on a full stomach, her mother preached. The theory, as Cassidy recalled, was that she wouldn’t make impulse purchases based on hunger. The downside was that, with her stomach so full, she couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for any of the foods available.
It was going to be a salad kind of week, she decided as she gathered the ingredients for chicken salad, pasta salad, garden salad and potato salad. She added a few staples—cereal, milk, ice cream and chocolate—along with a paperback from the limited selection, and was finishing up on the pop-and-potato-chip aisle when a man near the checkout caught her attention. Jace, she thought with a rush of warmth that was more pleasurable than was good for her.
No, not Jace. The clothes were a match, but this man’s back was to her and there was no long, silky black ponytail to be seen. His hair was short, as short as hers.
Then he turned, saw her and started toward her.
“You cut your hair,” she blurted when he was still fifteen feet away. Damn! As if he hadn’t been handsome enough before. He was a dangerous man, she’d decided on their way into town. Now she amended that to very dangerous.
He combed his fingers through it, dislodging a few stray hairs. “It’s getting too hot to wear it long. I never liked it that way anyway.”
“Then why let it get so long?”
“It was easier than getting it cut.”
She wanted to ask when he’d last cut it. Back in the winter, she would bet, when he hadn’t wanted anyone’s attention. What had happened? Had he undergone some personal crisis, been depressed or sick or in trouble?
He would tell her…if she answered all his questions first.
She didn’t want to know that badly.
Instead of getting his own shopping cart, he turned hers back from the register and took it—and her by default—on a quick sweep through the store. Though he wasn’t working from a list, he knew what items he wanted and in what brands and sizes. He gathered twice the amount of food she had in less than half the time, then steered the cart to the checkout.
The cashier was a pretty woman with auburn hair and a name tag identifying her as Ginger pinned to a snug-fitting T-shirt. “Hi, Jace,” she said warmly before turning her attention to Cassidy. Her gaze narrowed and her smile slipped a bit, but when she finally greeted her, it was with almost the same warmth. She rang up Jace’s purchases first while a teenage boy in baggy denim shorts sacked them.
“Are you visiting Jace?” she asked as she started on Cassidy’s groceries.
Cassidy glanced at Jace, talking football with the bagger and paying them no mind. “No. I’m renting the Davison cabin out at the lake.”
“Oh, you’re the one—the writer from Alabama.” Ginger smiled. “I go out with Buddy Davison from time to time. He mentioned it.”
“Actually, it’s South Carolina,” Cassidy corrected her. Ask the same question ten times and she would give ten different answers. That was one of her methods of survival.
“No, I’m pretty sure Buddy said Alabama. He says you write history books.”
Had she told Paulette Fox that? Cassidy wondered. Maybe. Hell, she’d told the woman she was from Alabama, when she’d never set foot in the state. She’d gotten in the habit of not paying a great deal of attention to her lies. After all, she was rarely in one place long enough for her untruthfulness to catch up to her, and this place wasn’t likely to be any different. “Not history books. Historical novels.”
As soon as the words were out she inwardly grimaced. That was dumb. If she knew little about writing books in general, she knew nothing about writing historical books. The only history she was intimately familiar with was her own, and it had always been fairly innocuous…until six years ago. Then it had gotten interesting. Three years after that it had become movie-of-the-week material. Now it was boring and lonely, but tempered by the certain knowledge that it could all blow up at any moment.
Baseball, her father liked to say, was a game made up of long stretches of tedium broken by brief spurts of excitement. It was an apt description of her life.
“I don’t read much,” Ginger said, “but I always thought it would be cool to write a book. Of course, I just barely squeaked through senior English, and I don’t have a clue what I would write about, and really I don’t think I have what it takes. I can’t even bring myself to write a letter from time to time, so I think a book is pretty much out of the question.”
That was something else Cassidy had learned in her brief “career”—not only was everyone planning to write a book someday, but they equated completing a four-hundred-page novel with writing a one-page letter to Grandma. It was as if they defined write in its simplest form—putting words to paper—and never acknowledged the difference between that and telling a logical, compelling, cohesive story.
She had learned the difference all too well in her past few days at the computer.
Ginger read out the total of her purchases and Cassidy handed over three twenties. She glanced up as Jace moved to her side again, but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead his gaze was on her open wallet. The wallet where a Wisconsin driver’s license was half revealed behind an old photograph. Abruptly she snapped the wallet shut, accepted her change and dropped it, coins and all, into the bottom of her purse.
“See you, Jace,” Ginger said, then added to Cassidy, “Nice meeting you.”
Cassidy murmured something appropriate—she hoped—then followed the bagger toward the door, Jace right behind her. Her jaw was clenched as she waited for him to say something about the license, but when he finally spoke, the subject was harmless.
“You like to fish?”
The relief that rushed over her was enough to weaken her knees. It must have been the photograph he’d seen and not the driver’s license, or surely he would be questioning her about it. He’d never hesitated yet to ask whatever came to mind, and surely a license in a different name from a different state would rouse a curiosity too strong to resist.
“I don’t know,” she replied, hoping her tone was as casual as the question deserved. “I’ve never tried.”
Naturally that wasn’t entirely true.
There had been the time with her dad, when she’d impaled a fish hook in her foot and required a trip to the emergency room to remove it. And the time with her brother, David, when she’d knocked his precious hand-tied lures overboard and he’d tossed her after them. And the time with Phil, trying to impress him by removing the ugly creature she’d caught quite by accident from its hook. It had latched onto her finger the way Liza Beth had claimed Jace’s, and in her resulting hysteria, that time it had been Phil who’d gone overboard. Not surprisingly, none of the three had ever invited her fishing again.
“It’s not a bad way to spend an afternoon. We’ll give it a try sometime…when you don’t mind being distracted.”
She frowned at him and saw he was giving her a sidelong look and grinning. He was entirely too handsome when he grinned, with all the mischievousness of a boy run wild…and all the sexiness of a man full grown. It made her want to blurt, How about now? Thankfully she managed to keep the words inside and politely said, “That sounds like fun.”
And for once, she thought as she climbed into the truck and turned the air-conditioner vents her way on full blast, that was the honest truth.

Chapter 4
“You lied to me.”
Jace backed away from the door the next afternoon as Neely opened the screen door and walked into the cabin as if she had a right. Technically, since her husband was half owner, she did have that right. He kept backing, not stopping until the sofa was behind him, then folded his arms across his chest and scowled at her. He knew it wasn’t a very good scowl—he loved her too much to ever get really annoyed with her—but he pretended anyway. “About what?”
“Your neighbor. You remember, the one who’s this tall, round, old enough to be your mother and not your type?” She copied his position, then added a tapping toe to it. “I happened to stop by Shay’s yesterday and the waitress said you’d been in for lunch with your new neighbor. Then I went to the grocery store and Ginger said you’d been in there, too. They said she’s pretty, blond, about her age, and Ginger said you looked… How did she phrase it?” She raised one hand to tap a fingertip against her chin, then feigned enlightenment. “Smitten. She said you looked smitten with her.”
“Smitten. That’s a good old-fashioned word. Sounds like something my dad would use, or maybe Uncle Del, but not Ginger. I’m kind of surprised that she even knows it.”
The hand belonging to the chin-tapping finger smacked his shoulder lightly. “You must be smitten, or why would you lie to us about her?”

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